


Night of the Sitcom

by notmanos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: casefic, maybe a tad of destiel, so you've been warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-08-25 16:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmanos/pseuds/notmanos
Summary: (Season 11-ish) Investigating some strange deaths in a small town, Sam and Dean find themselves being shadowed by an unseen audience, constantly reacting like they're hilarious. Is it a genuine trickster this time, or something even stranger? And can they figure it out before the invisible audience drives them crazy?





	1. Act 1: The One With The Inappropriate Soundtrack

**Author's Note:**

> I had this weird idea, and I decided to run with it. Just so you're warned.

Dean knew something was wrong when he got up, but was unable to pinpoint what until he was in the shower.

He started hearing these noises, which he attributed to motel plumbing - it could be a weird beast in even the better places - but it was a more human noises. It sounded like people laughing. Then, after washing the shampoo out of his hair, he realized there was a floating black box over his groin.

What the hell ..? He tried to touch it, but his hand went right through it, like it was a ghost. Except it wasn’t, because ghosts weren’t black and box shaped, and usually when you made contact with a ghost, it was like an instant ice water bath. “What the f-” Dean said, only to hear the word fuck replaced by a  _ beep _ . And then there was more laughter, louder this time.

Dean stuck his head out of the shower and looked around, but he was definitely alone in the bathroom. “Hello?” he said, on the off chance of a response. “Who the f- _ beep  _ is bleeping me in real life?” This was met by laughter from what sounded like a large group of unseen people.

Okay, this was bananas. After slapping himself to make sure he was awake - he was, and this elicited more laughter from the invisible chorus - Dean got out of the shower and hastily got dressed, noticing the black box disappearing as soon as he got his jeans on. In his own mind, he was trying to come up with a plausible reason this could be happening, and couldn’t. “Goddamn it, Gabriel, if this is you I’m killing your ass,” Dean snapped, shrugging on his shirt. More laughter.

He stepped out into the bleak parking lot of the Sunset Motel, where they had arrived last night. Sam had found a case of strange suicides and murders in this area, with little rhyme or reason, and had finally convinced Dean they should check it out. Last night, they’d investigated the latest victim, a middle aged man named Jared Parker, but hadn’t come up with much of anything. Sam figured they could pick up with the first victim, Amy Wildebrand, in the morning.

Dean was wracking his brain, trying to figure out if maybe he got roofied or something at that sad bar they were at last night, but he was usually pretty vigilant about that. But this seemed a little like a bad acid trip, didn’t it? The sky was pinkish-purple, and while that may have been early dawn crossed with air pollution, it might also be a powerful hallucinogen. But Dean was pretty sure he’d know if he was on a trip. Acid usually made him feel like he was warm in the face, flushed, while mushroom left him with warm hands and tingly fingers. Not that he’d ever tell Sam any of this. He knew how fucked up it was that he could tell these things, but in cases like these, that knowledge was useful. 

He knocked on Sam’s motel room door, and suddenly wondered if only he was experiencing this. What if he was? Was that good or bad? Dean didn’t have to think about that too long, as Sam opened the door, and looked at him wild eyed, as Dean suddenly heard applause. “Tell me you’re hearing that,” Sam asked.

“The invisible peanut gallery? Yeah, I am,” he said, to sporadic laughter.

“Holy s- _ beep _ , I thought I was having a breakdown,” Sam said, also to sporadic laughter. 

Dean went into Sam’s room and closed the door, hoping he’d leave the audience behind and knowing he damn well wouldn’t. Sam’s laptop had been abandoned on his bed, and it looked like he had a page about Amy Wildebrand up on the screen. Normal, sure, but there was a huge clue this had gotten to Sam early.

Although dressed in his usual clothes - not fake F.B.I. drag - his hair was kind of a mess, suggesting he hadn’t showered this morning. Sam would never admit to being kind of obsessed with his hair, but he totally was, and the fact that it was mussed, and a little frizzy from the humidity suggested he had done no primping at all this morning. That was a fucking red flag. “When did you first notice this?” Dean asked.

Sam ran a hand though his hair, messing it up even more, before he sat on the edge of the bed and retrieved his laptop. “I didn’t sleep well last night, so I figured I’d review the cases, see if I missed anything. I blindly reached for my phone, and knocked a cup off the nightstand ... and I heard people laughing. That must have been ... thirty minutes ago? “

“Well, I was in the shower when I noticed a black box over my junk.” Titters from the audience.

Sam’s eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I guess my d- _ beep _ too hot for TV. I suppose this means we’re not on HBO.” More laughter from the crowd. “And who the f- _ beep _ is censoring us? If this is Gabriel again we seriously need to kill him.”

“Gabriel? If he isn’t dead - a big if - he hasn’t bothered us in years. Why would he do it now?”

“’Cause he’s a d- _ beep _ ?” More laughter from the invisible crowd. Dean wished he knew where they were so he could give all of them the finger. 

Sam considered that a moment, and it was bizarre how haunted he looked. How tired was he? Or, perhaps more tellingly, how much was he convinced he was having some sort of nervous breakdown? To be honest, the fact that they weren’t both in rubber rooms was amazing, and a testament to how well you could function if you just embraced the crazy and went with it. Sometimes there was no other choice. “This feels different from that time, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it does.” Dean couldn’t exactly articulate how, but it did. Also, the censoring and black box were new. What did it mean? “Maybe an actual trickster?”

Sam shrugged. “And your’e sure we weren’t roofied or something?” More laughter.

“Even if we were, we wouldn’t be sharing a hallucination.”

“Unless you’re just a Dean my brain made up,” Sam said. The crowd laughed, and Sam looked stricken.

Dean punched Sam in the arm. Not as hard as he could, but much harder than he usually would. More laughter as Sam recoiled. “Ow! Dude, what the f- _ beep _ was that for?”

“Did that feel like a hallucination to you?” he asked, doing his best to ignore the laughing crowd. It was close to impossible. 

Sam rubbed his arm, and scowled at him, looking a bit more together. “No. But you didn’t need to be such a d- _ beep _ about it.”

“Sure I did. You wouldn’t have known it was really me otherwise.” For some reason, this got a smattering of applause. Why?

Despite giving him what would probably be a nasty bruise, Sam looked a tiny bit more together, which was good. He didn’t need him wigging out on him now. “Okay, so, could this somehow be related to the case?” Dean asked. He knew if he could get Sam case focused, this little wobble would quickly be put behind him. 

“How?" Sam replied. 

“No clue. You’re the brains of this operation.” More laughter from the peanut gallery.

Sam frowned, and stared down at his laptop. A good sign. “I mean, it has to be related, but I’m not sure how just yet. I did find something I’d missed before, reading an alternate article on Amy’s untimely death. This one mentions that “occult symbols” were found at the scene.” The audience  _ ooo-ed _ now. The urge to tell them to go fuck themselves was almost maddening, but Dean felt giving in to that would let them win. Whoever they were.

“Occult how?”

“It doesn’t say. I was thinking maybe we should pay a visit to the reporter, one Autumn Cho, see what she knows.”

Dean nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Maybe we’ll stop and get some coffee on the way?”

Sam stared at him. “I look that bad, huh?”

Dean gave him a friendly and not at all injurious slap on the shoulder. “Just a little stressed. Caffeine covers a multitude of sins. Well, caffeine, booze, and painkillers.” The crowd laughed.

Sam dry washed his face. “You got any on you?”

Dean pulled out his flask, and held it out to Sam, who glanced at it. The crowd laughed. “I was joking.”

“More for me then,” Dean said, unscrewing the cap and taking a hearty swig. The crowd continued laughing, and Dean hoped he had enough of this to keep his homicidal urges at bay. Because he totally wanted to find this crowd and kick all their asses. 

 


	2. Act 2 - In Which There’s An Adorably Ominous Development

Sam knew he wasn’t really being watched. But his logical side was clashing with the feeling that yeah, he was being watched. There was no audience! This was some weird spell or hallucination or something. Except he got this feeling between his shoulder blades that he was being watched, and it was awful. His body seemed to be recalling his Lucifer hallucinations, and was dumping way too much cortisol into his system. He felt tense, on edge, and no attempt to mentally talk himself out of it was working.

  
Dean was right. He should just start drinking. 

Coffee made him feel more alert, but didn’t help the tension at all, so he tried to focus and read up on the other cases to distract himself. He had yet to find any mention of occult symbols at any of the other scenes, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there, it just meant that nobody noticed them. 

Autumn lived in an apartment building that looked startlingly industrial, but Sam imagined a reporter for a small town paper wasn’t exactly rolling in money. While Sam was going through the glove box, picking out the fake badges they’d use this time, Dean made a quick call. “Hey Cas,” he said. “If you think you’re up to it, things have gotten really weird here in Pine Valley, Wisconsin, and we might be able to use some angelic assistance” For some reason, this made the audience  _ awww _ . 

This also told Sam that the audience was getting to Dean too, because he’d been reluctant to get Cas involved in anything, afraid he was too fragile. 

“Did you hear his new message?” Sam asked.

Dean nodded, slipping the phone back into his pocket. The new message on Cas’s voice mail was “See, Dean, I learned how to do this correctly”. It was funny, sure, but it was also weirdly endearing. Who knew an ancient cosmic being would have so much trouble with voice mail? “Should we tell him he hasn’t actually, or just let it go?”

“Let it go. He’s been through a lot.”

“Haven’t we all?” For some reason, this prompted laughter from the crowd.

  
Sam handed Dean a badge, and he glanced at it to see what name he was using before sliding it in his pocket and getting out of the car. 

Sam was kind of hoping that once they started interacting with other people, this would fade away. When Dean knocked on Autumn’s door, there were a few faint titters, but Sam took that as a good sign. They were getting quieter.

The door opened a crack, revealing a still engaged chain lock, and a single brown eye gazing at them warily. “Yes?”

Both he and Dean held up their badges, and Dean said, “Agents Roeser and Bloom, ma’am, FBI.” The laughter of the crowd seemed louder now. Damn it! “We were hoping to talk to you about the Amy Wildebrand case.”

Her single eye widened. “Since when is that a federal case?”

“Since we think it connects to a murder case in Colorado,” Dean said. He was such a smooth liar it was honestly a little distressing if you thought about it. Sam tried not to.

Autumn shut the door to disengage the lock, then opened it wider. “I was thinking that that wasn’t a normal crime scene,” she admitted. 

They stepped inside her apartment, which was relatively neat, but cluttered with books on almost every available flat surface. It reminded Sam of his room in the bunker, when he started slacking off. Once inside, Dean sneezed, and before Sam could ask if she had a cat, a small black feline came out of nowhere and rubbed up against Dean’s leg. He sneezed again, which made the audience laugh. “He’s allergic to cats,” Sam said. More laughter.

Autumn scooped up the cat with one arm, and carried it to another room. “Oh, I’m sorry. Hermione is very friendly.”

Dean rolled his eyes and mouthed “Hermione?” as the crowd laughed.

As Autumn shut the door of the room she put her cat in, her brow furrowed, and she glanced towards the far wall. “Sorry, I think one of my neighbors has their TV on too loud. The walls in this place are like paper.”

The crowd laughed again. Sam heard nothing beyond them. Did that mean she was hearing the crowd too? Dean shot him a brief, alarmed glance, suggesting he was wondering the same thing. 

They took a seat on her sofa, and turned down the offer of drinks as Dean tried to get his sneezing under control. The audience laughed again, and Autumn looked towards the far wall with a frown. Goddamn, she was hearing it. “So, I noticed in your article you mentioned that there were occult symbols at the crime scene,” Sam said, deciding to get this over with as quickly as possible. What if she realized the laugh track wasn’t coming from a neighbor’s TV? What happened then? “I was wondering what kind of symbols.”

“Umm, it’s a little hard to explain ... I may have something that could show you, but I need you to tell me you’re not going to arrest me first.”

Dean, finally done with his sneezing fit, chimed in. “As long as you didn’t kill Ms. Wildebrand, we’re not arresting you.” Laughs from the audience again. How the fuck was that funny?

Autumn nodded, and got up to get something in her coat pocket. The coat was hanging on a rack near the door. “I know we’re not supposed to take photos of active crime scenes, but this was so weird I thought I should take a pic to document it properly. As it was, the editor cut my description from the finished article.”

She came back with her phone. She sat back in her chair and seemed to page through some files on her cell before handing her phone to Sam. “I took five photos. I know I shouldn’t have, but ... it was so weird. Can I ask what happened in Colorado?”

“We can’t give away too many details, but we’re looking into a cult that may be tied to a murder spree across several states.” Dean said. 

“A cult?” Autumn replied, buying it. People happily bought cults as being responsible for everything. Never mind that most cults were more of a risk to your wallet than anything else, The idea of murderous cults was so appealing, you could blame dozens of things on them, and almost no one would doubt you. They were a strange boon for hunters. “What’s it called?”

“The Society of the Blind Eye,” Dean said, so smoothly Sam knew he hadn’t made it up. It was a reference to something. What?

“Ooh, creepy.”

Dean continued spinning out a bit more bullshit, with background laughter, while Sam looked at the photos on Autumn’s phone. The first photo was nearly indecipherable, just ominous shadows and a splash of blood, but the next showed some kind of brass bowl with ashes in it, and marks on a slab of concrete that looked both vaguely familiar and completely out of place. Sam took the time to send the good photos to his own phone. After giving Autumn her cell back, he caught Dean’s eye, and gave him the slightest nod. They had what they needed.

They thanked her for her help, and claimed they’d be in touch if they had further questions. Autumn once again apologized for the noise as the crowd laughed, and they assured her it was no problem.

On the way back to the car, Dean exclaimed, “This is a big  _ bleep _ -ing problem.” Which elicited expected laughter from the hyperactive crowd. “What does it mean that she can hear it too?”

Sam both shook his head and shrugged. He was doing his damnedest to not start hyperventilating. Holy shit, he would have rather fought leviathans again rather than have to handle this. “I don’t know. I guess it removes hallucinations from the cause box. Unless the hallucination is contagious somehow.”

Dean gave him a flat stare over the roof of the Impala. It was a look of anger, but knowing Dean as he did, this was his version of panicking. He’d sublimated panic into rage since he was a kid. Dad really hammered home the message that he had to always do something. Panicking by itself was simply not allowed. “Are you saying we can spread this to other people?” The audience found that hilarious.

“Dude, I have no clue. I don’t know where to start with this. We’ll just have to work it like a normal case and hope we find answers before it drives us crazy.”

“You mean more crazy, don’t you?” Dean replied, getting in the car and slamming the door. The audience was really amused.

Sam got in, and called up the photos on his phone, handing it over for Dean to take a look. “Doesn’t this look like the residue of a summoning ritual to you?”

Dean studied the photos, seemingly jumping back between the second and third ones a couple of times. “Yeah, but what’s with the writing? Is that graffiti? It looks like someone trying to write Enochian with hand tremors on a storm tossed ship.” The audience seemed to find Dean a laugh riot. Sam really didn’t know what to make of that.

“By the way, Society of the Blind Eye? What the hell’s that?”

“It’s from Gravity Falls. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it. It’s great.”

Sam sighed, and rubbed his eyes. “Are you solely watching cartoons nowadays?”

“Hey, it’s a modern art form,” Dean said, to raucous laughter. He held up the phone. “Should we send it to Cas?”

“It’s not Enochian. I think it might be an old demon language, but that’s not a field I’m well versed in. I think we might need to call in an expert.”

“An expert? If not Cas ...” Dean figured it out. He scowled, brows furrowing. “No.”

“Look, I know the two of you aren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment, but he always takes your calls.” Sam almost added a catty remark about the summer jaunt when Dean was a demon, but decided to skip it. No need to entertain the audience further. 

Dean hissed a sigh through his teeth, tightening his hand on the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. “Oh, come on. Cas can probably read it.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You know this is easier.”

“Goddamn it,” Dean said, tossing him back his phone. “Send me the third photo.” He reached in his pocket to retrieve his own cell, as the invisible crowd laughed. “I’m not calling him. I’ll send him a text.”

Again, the urge to make a joke about a bad break up rested at the forefront of his mind, but he felt mature resisting the urge. It made Sam feel a bit more in control in this maddening state. 

  
Sam glanced over as Dean texted the photo to Crowley, asking only, “Do you recognize this?” Sam figured that was good enough. 

Once Dean put his phone back, some of his anger seemed to have abated. “So it looks like we’re dealing with some weird ass demon?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sam replied, to more laughter. “I said it looks like some sort of summoning. But it clearly didn’t go by the book, or Amy wouldn’t be dead.”

“Or maybe she was the chosen victim at the site,” Dean said. Why did the audience laugh at that? That was in no way funny. A woman died! “We have no evidence she was a willing participant in whatever this was. I mean, she didn’t die like a typical sacrifice, but it doesn’t mean she wasn’t one.”

Amy had been almost completely desanguinated - all her blood was removed. Only a tiny portion of it was found at the scene. She didn’t have a vampire bite that might explain it, she only had a single, tiny puncture wound in the back of her neck. From the records Sam was able to hack, the coroner assumed that was how she was drained of blood, but admitted it would be a bizarre way to do it, and must have taken forever. Which was a chilling detail that really wasn’t necessary. “None of this makes much sense. We just have to sift through the clues until we can figure out what’s going on.” Again, the crowd laughed. Where was the joke? Sam knew he couldn’t think about this, or it would drive him crazy long before he managed to figure out a goddamn thing.

Dean sighed and nodded. “So, next stop - Amy’s house or the crime scene?”

“Let’s try Amy’s first. We can probably guess how much the crime scene’s been disturbed.” It was at a cemetery, and if there were goth kids around, it was probably covered in candle wax and perfectly useless by now. 

But going to Amy’s house had some obvious challenges. If other people could hear their audience, how did they excuse that? Their neighbors weren’t seperated by a wall. There was no way to mistake the noise for anything else. What were they supposed to do - hope someone had a loud TV on in the house? Did they continue to pretend they heard nothing, and make the parents think they were losing their minds? There were no good options here. “On second thought, maybe we should start with the crime scene.” The audience tittered.

“Yeah. I was wondering how we were gonna deal with the crowd noise following us around. God, this is a pain in the ass.” The audience laughed as Sam nodded. It was. It was simply another complication in their investigation. Great.

Sam had honestly lost track of all the graveyards he had visited. A few thousand maybe? The weird thing was they all looked roughly the same. There were some differences - the wealthier ones were generally as closely groomed as golf courses, while the poorer ones always looked like they were a day away from being overrun with weeds and human garbage. This graveyard was somewhere in between, slightly overgrown from general neglect. That happened a lot in smaller towns. No one was dying - no pun intended - to look after the dead. It didn’t pay super well, and was a winning combination of boring and grisly. Oftentimes, city funds were only set aside for groundskeepers, so at least it had the general appearance of being taken care of. Was this verging on an old man rant? It felt like it, and it made Sam feel very old and very tired. 

There was a single mausoleum in the graveyard, a creepy old concrete slab of a thing that had turned brownish with age, and was close to a scraggly stand of trees. It was where Amy’s body was found, between those two things.

Whatever blood had been splashed on the mausoleum was now gone, revealing a clean patch of concrete that stood out garishly from the rest of its muddy facade. Someone had left flowers, and there were the burned down stubs of candles, but they looked more Catholic than Satanic. Dean gave it a cursory glance, and asked, “How old was she again?”

“Twenty.”

He sighed. “Goddamn it.” The audience laughed at this too. Why? 

Dean led the way into the stand of trees, which was too small to call much of anything. He’d broken out his flashlight, but it was hardly needed. They both looked around for anything out of place or weird, but so far all Sam had found was cigarette butts, condoms, and a beer can. Stay classy, humans.

“What the f- _ beep _ is that?” Dean exclaimed, eliciting a huge laugh from the crowd. He had his flashlight aimed up in one of the bigger trees. Sam went over and took a look at what he found. 

On a branch about eight feet from the ground, there was a tableau of squirrels and birds, clearly dead and clearly posed, with a stick between the two squirrels, and various birds lined up behind them, eight in all. While dead, there were no obvious signs of violence. They were simply dead, and someone took the immense amount of time to somehow line them up and keep them on the branch. “What are they doing?” Sam wondered, cocking his head to see it from a better angle. The crowd found this funny.

“Tug of war, I think,” Dean replied, also to laughter. “I’m thinking if our sick f- _ beep _ monster isn’t bad enough, he thinks he’s funny too. God, they’re the worst.”

Was there a possibility this wasn’t done by whatever was summoned? Considering its hidden placement, and how difficult this would be to accomplish, Sam didn’t think so. If someone fancied themselves a taxidermist Banksy, it would have been somewhere more visible. “Maybe that’s why we’re being haunted by a laugh track. He thinks this is hilarious.” The audience reacted like they thought it was.

Great. They were hunting a monster who thought they were a comedian. Maybe trickster wasn’t off the suspect list after all.


	3. Act 3 - In Which Knowledge Is Gained, But Isn’t Immediately Helpful

Dean was fucking sick and tired of the audience. He wanted to find them and start beating the hell out of them. He didn’t care about the size of the group; if they killed him, fine. As long as he took out most of them in the process. 

In the end, visiting Amy’s parents seemed like a non-starter, not while they had an invisible gallery watching their every move. Sam decided to work with the files he had and could get - in other words, attempting to hack the local police - and Dean went out and picked up some food, because dining in anywhere was out of the question. Not with this fucking audience hanging around. Sometimes they’d laugh for no reason. What the hell was that? And even cranking up the tunes didn’t block them. And if Mastodon couldn’t drown you out, you were loud. Dean also internalized this as the reason he stopped at the liquor store and stocked up on beer and whiskey. 

Back at the motel, he joined Sam in his room, dividing the booze and the food - okay, he kept the lion’s share of the booze - and Sam had made a little headway. “Okay, so, everybody we’re considering victims all died differently, except most of them did have low levels of spider venom in their system.”

For some reason, the audience laughed. “Spider venom? So what, are we looking for Shelob?” The crowd laughed again.

Sam gave him a sour little frown. “I doubt it, Legolas.” The audience seemed to enjoy that. “But it gives us somewhere to start. I’ve been looking up possible tricksters -“

There was a knock on the door that made them both sit up and share a wary glance. No one knew they were here, save for Cas. Was it him? Honestly, Dean knew his knock by now, and that wasn’t it. 

Dean went to the door, and didn’t have to look to know Sam was covering him, in case it was bad news. While Dean didn’t pull his gun, he was braced and ready to fight. So it was a little bit of an anti-climax to open the door and find Crowley casually leaning against the door frame, dressed like the world’s most suavest demon in his tailored black suit and blood red tie. For whatever reason, the crowd applauded. “Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me, Dean Winchester,” he said, holding up his phone. It had the picture Dean had texted him earlier. 

Dean wondered where Ruby’s knife was. Sam had it, right? “Does that mean you recognize the writing?”

“It’s extremely old, older than me even, but yes, I figured it out.” The audience laughed, and as Dean reluctantly stepped back and allowed him into the room, Crowley looked towards the television. Not seeing it on, Crowley glanced at him accusingly. “Where is that noise coming from?” The audience laughed again, and Crowley’s eyes rapidly scanned the room. 

“Ever since we arrived in this burg, we’ve been haunted by an easily entertained audience,” Dean said, getting more laughs. “We think someone summoned something they didn’t mean to, and couldn’t handle, hence the writing and all the deaths.”

Crowley stared at him a moment, as if trying to judge his veracity. He didn’t appreciate it. “That’s one of the weirdest things I’ve ever heard, and that’s saying something.”

“What did the writing say?” Sam asked.

Crowley’s eyes scudded over towards Sam with a lazy contempt. “Always straight to business, Moose. You must disappoint your girlfriends.” Although he was obviously startled by the audience’s laughter, Crowley kept his cool facade intact.

Sam didn’t take the bait, and gave him a dead eyed glare of his own. “What’s the message? I don’t supposed the summoned left us a name and address, did they?”

Crowley sighed and rolled his eyes, as if he was the most put upon being in the universe. “No, but they did gloat. It says, and I quote, ‘I’m back, bitches.’”

“Oh, great. That sounds promising.” Dean said, retrieving his beer. He expected the laughter, but it was still annoying. “I don’t suppose you know any foul mouthed spider demons with a penchant for taxidermy, do you?”

Crowley looked at him with a raised eyebrow, pointing up at the ceiling to indicate the laughing invisible choir. “Was that an attempt at comedy, or ..?”

“All the victims had spider venom in them,” Sam explained. “And they posed some dead animals at the crime scene to be funny or weird, depending on how you take it. We’re thinking trickster.”

“In that case, you’re lucky the corpses were animals,” Crowley said. The audience was really taking a shine to him, judging by the laughs he was getting. “Tricksters are nasty. They’re basically god level. I’d warn you away, but that would mean I care, so I won’t.” There were more laughs, and Crowley looked up, on the off chance he could see them. “I can’t decide if I love this or hate this.”

“Pure, unbridled hate is the only proper response,” Dean replied. This too amused the invisible people. 

Crowley gave him the slightest smile, meant only for him. “That’s the spirit.” As the crowd chuckled, Crowley sauntered over to Sam, looking at his laptop screen. “Why Moose, do you not know your good tricksters from your bad ones?”

Sam glanced up at him warily. He was usually always wary about Crowley, especially since he unsuccessfully tried to kill him. “You know these guys?”

“I know of most of them. Take Iktomi off the list. As tricksters go, he’s mostly a good guy. Take Anansi off the list too. He doesn’t bother with this dimension anymore.”

Dean almost asked how he knew that, but this was Crowley - there was an even chance he was making all of this up.

Sam gestured at the screen. “Any guesses at who it might be?”

Crowley looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Did you miss what I said about not caring before?” The audience was loving the hell out of Crowley. No pun intended.

Sam scowled. “Then why are you here?”

“Curiosity mostly. I like to see what piles of s- _ beep  _ you -” Crowley’s spine straightened, and his eyes flared in outrage. “Was I just f- _ beep _ censored?” The crowd laughed.

Dean nodded. “We’re PG now, apparently. Maybe PG-13? I really don’t know the difference between the two of them. Except I think you can say f- _ beep  _ once in a PG-13.”

Crowley shook his head, mostly in disgust. “You humans and your hang ups.”

“You used to be human,” Sam replied.

“Don’t remind me,” Crowley said, to general laughter. He swanned towards the door, and turned back for dramatic effect. “Let me know if you ever track down this audience. I’ll help you beat the s- _ beep _ out of them.” The audience laughed at this, and applauded as he went out the door. God, this was really fucking annoying. 

“Well, that was a whole bunch of nothing,” Dean said. One of these times, the laugh after wouldn’t annoy him, but it wasn’t this time. 

Sam shrugged. “Maybe. But if you can trust him - which, I don’t know - at least we’ve eliminated a couple of possibilities.”

“So you have a whole list of spider tricksters?”

“I wouldn’t say a whole list, but there’s way more than I expected. It’s going to be difficult to narrow this one down.”

“Maybe just skip ahead to the worst possible one, as that seems to be our luck.” The audience enjoyed that.

Sam shook his head. “I would if I could, but I’m not sure which is the worst one here. It’s all equally terrible in different ways.” 

“F- _ beep _ ,” Dean said, rubbing his face to hide his grimace at the laughter of the audience. Yeah, he needed to find these assholes and kill them. Realistically, they weren’t living things - they were somehow an adaptive soundtrack. You couldn’t help but personify them, but there was almost no way they were a real thing. But you wanted them to be, so you could take some rage out on them. 

After Crowley’s interruption, they settled down to research and drinking, and still the crowd periodically laughed at nothing. Dean took a drink every time he wanted to scream, but had to stop, as he was getting way too drunk. It must have gotten to Sam too, because he turned up the police scanner app on his laptop. It didn’t drown out the crowd at all, but at least it seemed like they were laughing about a noise complaint or a possible DUI. 

Dean felt bad for people who had to live with audio hallucinations all the time. It was like a special kind of torture. It must have been doubly so when you didn’t know which soundtrack was real and which wasn’t. Did he have a single goddamn thing to complain about now? Some people had lives that made the torments of hell look like amateur hour. 

Dean was about to call it a night, if that was even possible - he had some earplugs in the back of the Impala, right? Maybe that would block it out, or at least muffle it - when the police scanner spit to life. “Guys - ah hell, oh Jesus - send everybody to Main and Oak now.” Dean sat forward, and he and Sam briefly locked eyes. They might as well have been telepathic at this point, because he knew they were thinking the same thing: trouble. They just weren’t sure if it was the human variety, or the monster variety. 

The audience, as always, laughed.

“Who is this?” the dispatcher asked. That too provoked laughter.

“Car twenty four, O’Brien, I - I don’t even know how to describe this. Send everybody. Cops, paramedic, hell, the f- _ beep _ fire department, send everyone. This is ... s- _ beep _ . I don’t know what this is.”

It reminded Dean of a line from Return of the Living Dead -“Send more paramedics,” grunted by a zombie who’d already eaten the first wave of them. It wasn’t a great thing to think about right now, and it sent him to his feet. The cop sounded genuinely scared, which set off all the alarm bells he had. 

“Try,” the dispatcher said, making the invisible audience convulse with laughter. “Is it a car accident?”

“No, it’s ... people are strung up.”

“Strung up?”

“From the lampposts, the stoplights ... I don’t know what’s holding them up. I ... I think they’re all dead, but ... they’re so pale.”

The crowd laughed, and Dean had heard enough. “Let’s roll,” he said, heading for the door. Sam nodded, and joined him on the way out. 

The most obvious and daunting problem was they couldn’t actually go to the scene. Even if they wanted to try and bluff their way through as FBI agents, they might be more of a hindrance than any kind of help. And if they needed to do some monster fighting while there, it made things even worse. So Dean found a place to park a street over from Main, but they could already hear the cacophony of sirens screaming through the night towards them, so loudly it almost blurred out the audience. They cut through an alley to Main and Oak, and Dean could already hear the static cough and crackle of police radios before they even came out on the street. 

Some police beat them here, but not by much. Three cop cars were parked at the head of the intersection's roads, so no one could drive through even if they wanted to. Their headlights gave a glow that illuminated the scene for all to see, and honestly, Dean wished he hadn’t seen it.

There were five people in all, hanging from their wrists, their ankles, or their waists, from gossamer strings that were barely visible, even with all the lights. It was like someone sprayed the finest webs from the Halloween store over the stoplight poles, the street lamps, and from those impossibly fine things, bodies dangled, several feet over the asphalt. They were like broken marionettes hanging on a rack, put away and forgotten for decades. He was glad they were too far away, and the lights too inconstant to reveal too many details, but a heavy set man, dangling the lowest, had an exposed arm, and his flesh was almost snow white in the glare of headlights, like he’d been bled dry. 

Sam made an incoherent noise, sort of like he’d been punched in the gut, and put a hand over his mouth. Not because he was going to get sick, but because he hadn’t meant to react like that. There was something so eerie and horrible about this scene that, jaded hunters that they were, they could still feel it. The fact that the entire scene was bloodless - even the bodies appeared, at first glance, to be unharmed - somehow made it worse. They were simply rendered dead, drained of blood, and hung up like trophies for everyone to see. 

And in the background, the audience roared and applauded, as the first fire truck arrived, along with an ambulance that could do nothing but cart bodies away, once they figured out how to get them down.

Dean felt cold from head to toe, but also felt something like a winch tightening in his chest. He was so angry it was almost beyond his ability to cope with it. Blood pounded in his head, and he felt like the slightest nudge would cause him to do something incredibly stupid. 

“Oh this motherf- _ beep _ ,” Dean said quietly. It somehow seemed disrespectful to speak above a whisper. “We need to hunt it down and kill it now.”

Sam took several seconds longer than normal to reply. Maybe he was feeling the same way. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with. We can’t go off half-cocked with no plan.”

“I have a plan," Dean replied. “You keep researching. I’m going hunting.”

Sam grabbed his arm as he turned away, making Dean pause. “Hunt what? Hunt where? We have no clues to work with.”

“That’s what I’m hunting - clues. It can’t kill people and leave nothing behind. I’m gonna find us something even if it kills me.” The audience thought that was hilarious.

Sam grimaced. “It probably will. Where the hell are you even gonna look?”

“Where spiders go. Places dark and quiet.” Yes, it was crazy. Dean knew it was, and it didn’t matter. Because he had to do something, or all this rage was going to make him explode. 

Better to take it out on something that deserved it. 

 


	4. Act 4 - In Which A Stranger Appears

Dean’s first impulse was to find a grimy bar, and start scoping out other monsters for information. Because, unless the spider trickster or whatever the hell it was had already eaten all the competition, most towns had some. But that kind of bar was kind of out of the question. Not with his noisy audience following him.

But while he was driving and thinking - honestly, he did some of his best thinking while driving, or in the shower. Kind of depended, really - Dean drove past a bar that caught his eye. It was one of those places that was trying to be something else as well as a bar, with a lit sign advertising both food and the broadcast of an MMA match. The parking lot was ludicrously crowded, and Dean would have bet his left nut the noise level in that place was almost intolerable.

After finding a parking spot, he opened the door of the place, and a solid wave of sound crashed against him. 

Perfect.

There were a couple of different television screens, all perched high up on walls, and if their noisy repetition wasn’t enough, there was actual top forty radio playing somewhere in the background, not quite drowned out by the screens. And there were men, most of whom sounded halfway in the bag or on their way there, catcalling the fighters and laughing in the special super loud and menacing way that only drunk men could. Dean was aware his audience was still following him, but he couldn’t really hear them anymore. It was hard to hear yourself think in this place.

The bartender was a black haired young woman wearing a top that looked like a re-purposed leather vest that allowed her to show off a good amount of cleavage. It was probably great for tips, but also earned her a lot of unwanted attention from these drunk assholes. He would have been happy to hit on her because she was totally his type, but the amount of testosterone in this place was vaguely nauseating, and if he felt that way, he bet it was a thousand times worse from her perspective. Worse yet, because she worked for tips, she had to take their assholish behavior as nicely as possible, rather than, say, break a bottle over their head, or snap their hands off at the wrist. Dean would probably make her night by leaving her the fuck alone. 

He sat at the bar, and waited until she came over. He gave her a friendly smile, and tried not to flirt. Damn, sometimes it was hard. It was his default setting. “What can I get you?” she asked. She couldn’t even feign a smile. 

“What beer would you recommend?”

“A cosmopolitan,” she replied. Yeah, she was pretty much done with guys tonight.

He shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

That seemed to surprise her. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’ve never had one before.”

She almost smiled as she busted out the ingredients. “Not a cocktail man?” 

“Not really, although every one I’ve tried I’ve loved.”

“So why don’t you order more of them?”

He shrugged again. “No idea. Habit? Just fell into a rut and stayed there.”

She scoffed and shook her head. “Boy, do I know that feeling.”

Dean could hear laughter very faintly in the background, but it was completely drowned out by men shouting at the screen. Dean glanced up to see what was happening, but it was only men in tiny shorts trying to beat the shit out of each other in a cage. For some reason, he didn’t like MMA, and it made his stomach flip, and suddenly he remembered why. Oh shit, how could he forget when he was tossed in a cage as a teenager and forced to fight a ghoul who’d paid for the privilege of beating him to death? How the fuck did he forget something as traumatic as that? For years - before Cas rescued him from hell and healed everything - he had a scar on his arm and his back as a reminder of the beating he took. He was lucky to have lived through it. The good thing about getting older was losing all these shit memories, the ones that should have rightly haunted you. But even though the memory was just fragments now, mostly memories of pain and the roar of the demonic crowd, he still found himself clenching his fist and grinding his teeth. Memories went first, but the actual trauma went last. Great. He really hoped a cosmopolitan had a lot of alcohol in it. 

She picked up the money he’d dropped on the bar, and put a martini like glass in front of him, with a tiny skewer of fruit in it, along with an extremely pink liquid. “Enjoy.”

He picked it up, sniffed tentatively, and then took a sip. As he suspected, he liked it. “Wow, that’s delicious.” It was like fancy cranberry juice, but not bitter, with a nice alcohol kick after. He was tempted to shotgun it, but he didn’t. 

The bartender genuinely smiled at him. “See what you miss when you stay in a rut?”

“Let’s see if I learn anything.” He felt like they were genuinely having a nice moment here, and she probably wouldn’t have minded some subtle flirting, but truth be told, Dean was not in the mood. From the bodies at the intersection to the memories of the cage, he was more in a mood to punch something. 

He tried to pace himself on the cosmo, looking around for any potential monsters. He clocked the bouncer, who was basically a mountain of a man, wearing a t-shirt so goddamn small it looked like it was a sneeze away from exploding off his body. He had a shaved head and gym muscled arms, but he was built like a truck, and while definitely heavy set, he was in that way that power lifters were. Hard fat, and whether he was any good at fighting was made up for by the fact that he could probably punch with the force of a speeding train. No monster would be so blatant, so he probably was a human, and it looked like there was a tiny scrawl of prison ink on his right upper arm, so yeah, human. Human you absolutely didn’t want to fuck with. No wonder he was here on MMA night. 

Was there a second bouncer or not? Considering the size of the room, he figured even man mountain might need back up to cover the place. While glancing around, trying not to be too conspicuous, he saw a guy at the other end of the bar. Young, maybe around the bartender’s age, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with a weird drawing on the front, and the words Author and Punisher bracketing it. Was that a band, or a statement? Hard to say. While Dean was trying to decide, the guy looked at him.

He was dark haired, dark eyed, incredibly handsome when you considered both the location and the time, and something in the look he gave Dean was very curious. Had he recognized him? That wasn’t a great sign.

Dean finished his drink, and gave the room another cursory glance, just to see if it looked like anyone was closing the distance on him from another angle. He finished his pink, fruity drink, and threw a decent tip on the bar before sliding of his stool and casually making his way out. He became loose limbed, like he was a bit tipsy, and left the cacophony. The audience came back loud and clear, as Dean kept a watch out of the corners of his eyes, because he needed to remain loose and seemingly unaware of danger. The best way to draw out the monsters was to act like prey. 

After about a minute, before he even reached the Impala, he had a sense he wasn’t alone, but he hadn’t spotted his friend before a male voice said, “You don’t have to pretend, hunter. I know you’re not drunk. But you have a great act. Did you do drama in school?”

Dean turned and faced the voice. It was the handsome guy from the bar. Dean knew he’d recognized him. “Didn’t finish school, actually. I had to learn the hard way. So what kind of monster are you?”

He scoffed. “To us, you’re the monster. You’re one of the Winchesters, right? I’ve heard one of them is a male model looking motherfucker.”

“What about the other?” Dean asked, mainly because he was curious. The audience laughed.

“More of a boy next door type. What’s that noise? Is that your ringtone?”

“No. Answer my question first.”

He smirked. He was hot and he knew it, which was kind of annoying before you even added the monster component. “Or what, you’ll shoot me?” The audience laughed again, and this time the guy looked around the parking lot, braced as if to fight or flee. “What the fuck ..?”

“You’re not the only one who figured out we’re hunters I guess, ‘cause we’ve been plagued by this since we arrived.”

Handsome guy seemed genuinely shocked. “You’re being tormented by a laugh track? Wow, that’s ... wow. That seems excessively cruel. Who’d you piss off?”

Dean shrugged. “I dunno. You tell me ..?”

He finally got the hint. “Kiran.” For some reason, that was a laugh line for the audience, which made him jump a little.

Dean had to swallow a smirk. He kind of liked that reaction, especially since he was sure that this fucker’s name wasn’t actually Kiran. “And you are ..?”

“Before I say, I want to make something clear. I’m a vegetarian. Well, kind of. At least, as much as I can be.” Dean raised an eyebrow at that, because what the hell did that mean? Was he a ghoul that only ate dead vegetables? “I’m a vampire. And no, I didn’t kill that girl at the graveyard. I only eat animal blood.”

He already knew he didn’t kill the girl, because she had a single mark on the back of her neck, but Kiran didn’t. “Where were you about an hour ago?”

His eyebrows dipped low over his eyes. “What? I was here, dude. I’m working my shift. It started at seven.”

“Your shift?”

“I’m a bouncer.” 

Okay, that made sense. He was man mountain’s back up. And he was so lean you wouldn’t think he was strong at all, but, vampire. He could probably kick man mountain’s ass. He could certainly take any punishment he handed out. “How long have you lived here?”

“A little over a year. Figured I could hide out where no hunters would find me.” He rolled his eyes. “Which is in the toilet now, but whatever.” He scowled as the audience laughed.

“You don’t have a nest?” Kind of unusual for a vampire not to have fellow bloodsuckers with him.

“I was a loner before I was turned. I’m not changing that now.”

Dean was surprised he actually believed him. But then again, would a vampire with a nest, trying to kill humans, work as a bouncer? Vampires could take money from the people they killed; they didn’t need to work. Unless they weren’t killing anyone. And Sam had pegged this death as unusual. If bloodless bodies had been popping up regularly, Sam would have found it and mentioned it. It wouldn’t be the first supposedly “good” vampire they’d run into. Most had a tendency to fall off the wagon or end up dead either way, but there was no need to get into that now. “Do you know what’s come to town?”

“No. It’s bad, but that’s about all I can say.”

“Oh, it’s bad? The thing dropping bodies all over town is bad?” Dean snapped. This time, the laughter from the audience seemed justified.

Kiran frowned at him. “Hey, you came into my workplace, looking for trouble.”

“I wasn’t looking for trouble. If I had been, the bar brawl wouldn’t be over yet. It wouldn’t be hard to turn a room that full of macho drunks into a self-perpetuating rage machine, and you know it. I want to find this thing and put it down.”

They scowled at each other as the audience tittered, and Dean could feel exhaustion sinking into his bones. He didn’t want to do this. Right now, he wanted to be almost any place but here. But now was not the time to get distracted. He had a job to do and he had to do it, no matter how impossible it seemed. “Okay, Kiran, you’ve been here a year. Can you tell me which side of town you’d be on if you were a spider trickster killing machine who didn’t want to attract unwanted attention?” The audience laughter continued.

Kiran still looked around for them, even though they weren’t physically here. “A spider trickster? That’s a thing?”

Dean shrugged with his arms, throwing them out like he was appealing to an indifferent universe. Maybe he was. “I guess. Unless you have a better suggestion.”

He scratched his head, and seemed to be genuinely thinking about it. “No, I ... this is beyond me. I was a barista before I was a vampire. I’m kinda new to this whole thing.”

Dean almost said  _ “it shows” _ , but kept that to himself. He probably didn’t ask to be a vampire; some jackass vamp just turned him for shits and giggles. Or at least that was his experience with it. “Okay. Directions to the bad part of town then?” Kiran should be happy to give him those, since there was always a chance he could get murdered there, even if he didn’t encounter the spider trickster. 

“Everything south of Huston and 23rd is pretty bad. But if you want the creepiest house in town, that’d be the Davenport mansion. I mean, it looks straight out of a horror movie.”

“Haunted?” Dean guessed.

It was Kiran’s turn to shrug. “Maybe. Supposedly it’s empty ‘cause it’s trapped in legal hell - family members suing each other for the estate - but lights are always going on, and it seems like someone lives there, but no one lives there. It’s creepy.”

He nodded, making a mental note to check it before they rolled out of town, but suddenly Dean wondered if the spider thing had moved in there. Just because it was a creepy crawly that hung bodies up in webs didn’t mean it would be hiding in the sewers. It was astonishing how many monsters were in plain sight - such as this gothy bouncer, who was in actuality a vampire who could slaughter the whole bar if he felt like it. No way did man mountain or hot bartender know they were working with a monster. And unless he decided to kill them or openly snack on a patron, it was unlikely they’d ever know. 

And, as Crowley had said, god level. Maybe it thought of itself that way, and what god would be squatting in an abandoned building? “Where’s this place again?” Dean asked, as the audience laughed. 

It was worth a look at any rate. And if it was just a ghost, hell, he’d take it. Maybe he could feel a mild sense of competence for the night. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I've made my own continuity. The cage match Dean recalls is from my fic Rain Dogs.


	5. Act 5- In Which Things Get Messy

Was the whole point of this invisible audience to drive them crazy, drive them out of town, or both? Sam felt like if he could discern a motive, he could figure out this whole thing. He didn’t know how exactly, but it sounded logical, didn’t it?

Shit. He knew he shouldn’t have let Dean storm off on his own. Not that he couldn’t take care of himself, because he could, but he had a special knack for finding trouble. Hell, if they ended up in Mayberry, Dean would somehow find a human sacrifice ring, and probably be next on the menu.

Sam almost called him to check in, but didn’t. He’d give him another hour to get kidnapped, then he’d call. Was that cynical? Probably. Still, he stood by it.

Sam was relatively sure he was already losing his mind. He was disappointed in himself, because how long did he function before the Lucifer hallucinations got to him? He was getting soft. Or tired. Tired was probably the reason. What were the odds he’d get any sleep with the audience tagging around? He was absolutely not looking forward to the night ahead. 

Sam had an app on his phone that played nature sounds, such as ocean noises and the sound of rain, et cetera, because sometimes after spending hours with Dean, he needed a little peace and quiet. He was currently blasting the ocean noise as loud as it would go, making it sound like the waves of the Pacific Ocean were splashing against his room, and yet, it didn’t hide the audience at all. And it must not have been soothing, because the moment there was a knock on the door, he almost jumped out of his skin, and sent his laptop careening off his lap. The crowd laughed as he retrieved it, put it on the bed, and paused the app on his way to the door. He assumed it was the motel manager fielding a noise complaint or something, So he was surprised to open the door, and find Cas standing there. 

“I came as ...” he broke off his own sentence as the audience applauded, and he looked around in confusion. “Have you found a trickster?”

“That’s what it looks like, yeah,” Sam admitted. He stepped back, and trusted Cas to come in on his own. “A spider trickster. It sees to have a thing for draining people’s blood and leaving them in webs.”

“That’s ... extremely blatant.” The audience laughed at that, which made Cas scowl.

“What do you mean?”

“If they wanted to be subtle, they could manage it quite well. Leaving bodies in webs almost seems like a taunt.”

Oh shit. He was right. Sam was so distracted and tired that hadn’t even occurred to him. “Do you think we’ve been deliberately misled?”

“I can’t say. But it’s a possibility.” The crowd “oohed”. eliciting another frown. “This is incredibly annoying.”

“Tell me about it.” His phone rang, and Sam saw it was Dean calling before he even picked it up. “Tell me you found something.”

“Maybe. There’s a place called the Davenport mansion, I’ll text you the address. It’s either haunted, or where our big bad is holed up. Maybe both. Either way, maybe we can accomplish something.”

“Do I want to know how you found this out?”

“Probably not,” Dean said, as the audience laughed.

“Okay, we’ll meet you there. Wait for us. Don’t rush in and do something stupid.”

“Since when do I do that? And who’s us?”

“Cas is here.”

“Oh, good. Say hi for me.”

“Sure. Don’t do anything stupid, Dean. I mean it. Wait for us.”

“Yeah, I got it.” Dean had barely hung up, and Sam had hardly pulled the phone away from his ear when it buzzed with a text. Sam didn’t recognize the address, but he didn’t need to. He had an app for that too.

“Is everything okay?” Cas asked, his shoulders rigid beneath his typical trench coat. Maybe the audience was already getting to him. God knew Sam was done with it. 

“Yeah. Dean may or may not have found us a clue.” Sam gritted his teeth against the audience response, and realized Dean’s drinking idea may not have been a bad one. 

“You’re not sure?”

“Nope. But right now, I’m not sure of up and down.”

Cas pointed towards the ceiling. “That way is up.” As the crowd laughed, Cas scowled again.

Since Dean had the Impala, they took Cas’s car, which continued to a weird thing, but an angel with limited to no teleportation abilities had to do what they could. Since it was his car, Cas drove, and Sam plotted their course on his phone. The audience continued to react sporadically to nothing in particular. It made Sam’s skin crawl. 

“What is the point of a laugh track if not torture?” Cas asked. The crowd laughed, but it sounded strangely philosophical to Sam, convincing him he was barely hanging on to sanity at this point. 

“I’m not really sure if it’s trying to drive us out of town or drive us crazy.”

“But wouldn’t they have to know if you attack them like this you’re not runnning away? This whole thing seems odd.”

“I have a feeling applying logic to this won’t work. I’ve been trying, and I think it’s driven me to the edge of madness.” The audience, of course, found this hilarious. 

“Tricksters are very strange creatures, but even they have limits.”

“Are you saying this isn’t a trickster?”

He considered that for several seconds, during which the audience nervously tittered. “No, it could be, but they are acting very strangely.”

“Strange is pretty much the definition of a trickster.”

“I know. But not usually in this manner.”

He did understand what bothered Cas. Tricksters were supposed to be about instant karma, even if the punishment was a little too extreme for the “crime”. So far, it didn’t seem like anyone was guilty of anything that might be considered a crime, by any stretch of the definition. So what was his point exactly? Tricksters weren’t normally spree killers. And this whole laugh track thing was fucking cruel. Okay, there could be some argument that maybe they deserved this and so much worse, but still. 

The mansion was one of those rich people’s places that seemed unreal. For one thing, it had an entire block pretty much all to itself. The property was surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence, with high laurel shrubs on the other side to block everyone’s view. Since it was dark and there seemed to be no lights anywhere - the moon was a sliver, and its meager light blocked by tall trees - all he could see of the mansion was the looming shadow of its roof. Another good horror movie set? Damn. What he wouldn’t give to visit a place that looked open and cheerful sometime.

They found the Impala parked on the side of the road several hundred feet from the front of the house. That made sense, as Dean did like to go in on foot for reconnaissance when they had no idea what they were facing or getting into. They could get hurt, but god forbid the car got scratched. 

Cas parked behind the Impala, and they got out, quietly closing the doors. Cas checked, but Sam didn’t need to. Dean wasn’t in the car. He only hoped he was surveilling, and hadn’t charged in alone like a fucking idiot.

The dark and the silence was eerie as hell. Even the audience seemed to finally be holding back, which was nice, but also kind of creepy. It was a feeling like waiting for the other shoe to drop, and he hated it almost more than he hated anything else in the world. 

There were no obvious signs of Dean, which could be either good or bad, depending on what action he had taken. When they finally came around to the front of the house, Sam’s eyes were night adjusted,so he could easily see that there was something in front of the gate. It looked like a pool of shadow longer and darker than any other, but before he could make out the details, Cas bolted forward with a quiet but alarmed, “Dean!”

Yep, that was him, laying splayed out in front of the gate, unconscious. What the hell had he done?

Cas crouched beside him, and by the time Sam had joined them, he’d already checked Dean for a pulse and any obvious damage, but he looked okay. There were no signs of a fight. He was just out cold on the ground. The hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stood up. This wasn’t good at all. He kept his gaze moving, trying to find something that stood out as strange or out of place, but right now there was the silence of an empty road, and the darkness of an empty house. It was nothing layered upon nothing. 

Cas touched Dean’s forehead, and he must have done something, because Dean’s eyes flew open, and he gasped. “Are you all right?” Cas asked, looking down at him with obvious concern. 

Sam saw the confusion on Dean’s face, which came and went so fast you had to know him to have caught it. His first instinct was to always pretend he was in complete control, especially when he wasn’t. 

Dean sat up, and Cas barely gave him enough room to do so. “I - uh ... I don’t know.” He looked around, and then checked his knuckles, just to see if he had punched something recently. The answer seemed to be no. “What happened?” The audience laughed, confirming they hadn’t gone anywhere. Damn it.

“We came up and found you like this,” Sam said. “You tell us.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Cas asked. He was still right next to him, and had his hand on Dean’s arm. This closeness between them was far from unheard of - in fact, there were times when he wanted one of those big pizza peel things to force them apart - but the amount of obvious concern seemed a little overboard, considering that Dean seemed fine. But Cas was possibly never going to accept the whole personal space thing, and no matter Dean’s occasional complaint, he was absolutely fine with it. 

Dean had to think a moment. “I was checking the place out, trying to see if there were any obvious signs of habitation or security ... all I remember is approaching the front gate.”

“That’s it?” Sam didn’t mean to sound annoyed, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted an answer to something, even if it didn’t matter. 

Dean flashed him an irritated look, but, surprising for him, he managed to keep his temper in check. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

As the audience tittered, Cas looked at the gate and frowned. He stood up, and helped Dean to his feet as well, but approached the gate alone. He stopped within arm’s reach of it, and held out his hand. Pale green energy flared to life, and although it didn’t seem to have any effect on Cas, it startled Sam. What the hell was that?

“What the fuck ..?” Dean exclaimed. 

“This is very arcane magic,” Cas reported, still scowling. He lowered his hand, and the field died, although Sam knew it was by no means gone. “But it explains why you can’t remember. It’s a bit like a repulsor field, with anyone trying to cross the barrier without the appropriate spell getting thrown back hard enough to knock them unconscious. Not lethal, but not pleasant.”

  
“So are we dealing with witches?” Sam asked. Again, any clue would be good.

Cas started to shake his head, but stopped. “It’s possible, but I don’t know of any powerful enough to haunt hunters with a constant laugh track. That would be a complicated one, requiring a lot of energy.”

“And we didn’t find any hex bags,” Dean reminded him. It was the first thing they’d looked for. 

“This is ... very old, and very strange,” Cas said, tilting his head in the way that he did when he was trying to remember something. “I think I’ve encountered this before.”

“When?” Sam asked.

Cas looked back at him with a dyspeptic frown. “I’m not sure. Do you realize how many centuries of memories I have? Give me a few moments.” Wow. Was the audience now making Cas grouchy? Not that he blamed him. He could join their damned little club.

At first, Sam attributed it to crowd noise. They were still randomly laughing, occasionally connected to what they were saying or doing, but since they were now quiet and standing still, it was back to unconnected. So it was Dean who first worked it out. 

He cocked his head, and turned back towards where they had come, up the dark, abandoned street. Again, perfect horror movie setting. Sam could almost picture the masked, ax wielding psycho coming out of the trees, and quietly cursed Dean for ever making him see even one of those goddamn films, especially when he was too young for it. And who ever thought Alien was appropriate movie for a nine year old? He almost wanted to send him therapy bills for that.

Anyway, Dean was looking down the road for some reason, and Sam joined him, wondering what he had noticed in spite of the audience. He was about to ask, when he realized Dean wasn’t looking for a person - he was hearing something. “They’re coming this way,” he said, and the audience laughed, so it took a few seconds for Sam to work it out.

Sirens.

Very distant sirens, at least for the moment, but rapidly becoming louder, which meant they were coming closer. Why? 

No, that didn't make sense. Why would cops come this way, full lights and sirens? There was nothing here. The place was abandoned, and nothing had happened ...

... except Dean had set off some kind of mystical warding spell. Huh. That couldn’t ... how could that ..?

“Fuck me,” Sam said, looking back at the dark hulk of the mansion. The audience burst into laughter, but sure they would. They seemed to be amused by profanity. And everything else, for that matter. “There  _ is _ someone living there.”

Dean looked at the house, maybe hoping to see someone mooning them from the attic window. But the place looked as abandoned as ever. “When the hell do witches ever call the cops on somebody?”

Sam shook his head. “Generally they don’t. A trickster might.” After all, what would be more hilarious than having them arrested and stuck in a cell? A truly captive audience.

But something about that still bothered Sam. Why let cops do his dirty work? He could torment them in a thousand different ways, ways that would make this incessant laugh track seem almost charming. Why bring civilians into this at all? 

Suddenly, something popped into Sam’s mind, unbidden:  _ He’s not ready for us yet.  _ Which was a crazy thought. He was killing people all over town, and he had sicced this audience on them from the jump. 

But maybe that was straining the limits of his powers right now. Maybe that’s why he’d fallen to arcane magic to protect him. Perhaps Cas’s arrival had also fostered a little panic. He was a broken angel, sure, but broken or not, an angel was still angel. And too much for him to face right now?

Sam wondered if he was grasping at straws, but it felt right. For once since they came to this goddamn nightmare of a town, something felt right. This trickster was strong enough to torment them, wear them down, and he was doing it because he couldn’t quite face them yet. He was preparing for a fight, but it had to be on his time table, because otherwise he knew he wouldn’t win.

Now Sam felt like he had an angle to work, even though he was fairly certain it was a dead end. What had weakened the trickster? 

And where did they get more of it? 


	6. Act 6 - In Which A Plan Is Hatched, With Obvious Flaws

There were nights when Dean liked to pretend that running from cops wasn’t one of their skills. Tonight was not one of those nights.

They all piled into the Impala, mainly because it was easier, and took off in the nick of time, just as a flash of blue lights appeared in the rearview. Damn, they were cutting it close. Wasn’t the first time, probably wouldn’t be the last. As for Cas’s car, he could come back later for it, or, if it was impounded, they could bust it out. Wouldn’t be the first time for that either. Oh, the lives they led.

Sam told them his new theory, that the trickster was a weak ass motherfucker, or something to that effect. To be honest, Dean was doing his best not to be distracted by the audience, which in itself was distracting. Add to that keeping an eye out for cops, and still feeling a little loopy from getting knocked out, and his attention wasn’t so much scattered as shattered into a million pieces. He made himself narrow it a bit so he could hear what Sam was saying. 

“What weakens a trickster?” Dean asked. He’d never even heard of that as a concept.

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. But we should figure it out if we can.”

“Wait,” Cas said from the back seat. “This began with a summoning, correct?”

“We think so,” Sam replied. “All evidence points that way.”

“Maybe the trickster’s weak from being in the Underworld so long.”

Dean exchanged a look with Sam, confirming he didn’t quite get that either. “Do you mean Hell?” Sam asked.

Dean could see Cas’s frown in the rearview mirror. “I know Underworld is considered another name for Hell, but it’s not. Far from it.”

“So what is it?” Dean wondered. 

“It’s where gods and demi-gods go when they die, if they can die. And it’s often used to trap or exile immortal beings.”

“Wait, what?” Dean replied, confused. Although, really, it made sense, didn’t it? Of course gods wouldn’t go to Heaven or Hell when they died. They’d have their own special place, because they were fucking snobs.

“Have a lot of tricksters been exiled to the Underworld?” Sam asked, steamrolling him. Which was fair enough, because Dean’s exclamation wasn’t really a question more than an expression of dismay. They really had too much going on right now. Why was there always more?

“Yes,” Cas said, answering Sam’s question. “Despite what your lore may have told you, killing tricksters is extremely difficult for mortals. Most people opted for trapping them in the Underworld. It’s not easy, but it’s still easier than trying to kill them.”

“And trying to summon a demon can summon one of them instead?” Sam wondered.

“No, because Hell and the Underworld are different places.” Cas paused briefly. “But if a Human assumed they were one and the same, and attempted to call something up from the Underworld ... I can see why they’re dead.”

“They opened the door, and something nasty jumped them, but not a demon, which they may have been prepared for,” Dean said.

Cas nodded, making meaningful eye contact with him in the mirror. Man, Cas had pretty eyes. “The Underworld is designed to hold everything within its confines. Nothing can leave, unless a door is opened from this side.”

“So these idiots accidentally - or maybe not so accidentally - tried to summon something from the Underworld, ended up a snack, and now it’s living in that creepy old place, and sicced a sitcom laugh track on us to wear us out until he’s in shape to kill us?” Dean asked, putting it all together. The audience roared with delight. Saying it aloud, it sounded insane. And therefore, plausible.

Sam shrugged, and gave him a facial expression to match it. He was guessing. They were all guessing. Dean could feel Cas’s eyes on him. “It does sound ridiculous. But it makes sense.” That was Cas throwing them a bone. 

“What weakened him?” Sam asked.

“Being in the Underworld. Most tricksters feed off people or their environment. Being trapped in the Underworld robs them of their strength. The longer they’re there, the weaker they are.”

“So this guy’s been in the stir for a while,” Dean guessed.

“Stir?” Cas asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

Sam sighed. “He means Underworld. He’s been trapped for a while.”

“Considering a normal trickster would have been able to kill you on sight, yes.” The audience took that for a laugh line. 

“Does that narrow down the suspects at all?” Sam asked.

Cas thought about it, frowning. He kept looking between him and Dean, and Dean had no idea why. “Not as such. There haven’t been too many tricksters captured recently.”

“Can we build an attack around this?” Dean asked. “At all?”

For a good minute, the sound of the engine was the only noise, as the audience was quiet. It was such a relief, Dean almost hated it when Cas broke the silence. Almost. “We know where he’s staying. We can try and trap him inside.”

“So he can’t feed?” Sam said, finishing the thought. “That’s a great idea. How do we do that?”

“Oh.” Cas said, and Dean’s meager hopes were smashed to pieces. “If he’s still weak enough ... what do you have in the trunk?”

Dean snorted. “What don’t we have in the trunk? We even have a grenade launcher -“

“No,” Sam said, giving him a pissy look. “I don’t even know why you bought it. Or how. “

“I told you, I met this guy in a bar in Baja -“

“Why do the worst stories I’ve ever heard about you always begin in a bar?”

Dean thought about that. That wasn’t true, was it? That couldn’t possibly be true. He had a  _ lot  _ of bad stories. “You know, I was in Hell, and Purgatory. I have much worse stories than buying army surplus from the back of a van.”

“You know that was probably stolen, and if it really is genuine military issue, illegal as hell?”

Oh, was that Sam’s issue with it? Was he having law school flashbacks? Because, boy howdy, they could both be convicted of murder raps, theft, grave desecration, fraud ... frankly, they should by all rights have criminal records thicker than an unabridged dictionary. “Um, dude? Our lives are illegal as hell. I really don’t think potential stolen goods is gonna tip the cart over.”

Sam gave him his death frown again. At least the audience seemed to enjoy it. 

“Do you have any artifacts, or rare herbs?” Cas asked, ignoring their little side argument. He was probably used to their bullshit by now.

“Artifacts?” Sam repeated. “I don’t think so. I think we do have some rare herbs. What do you have in mind?”

“An inventory review,” Cas said. That was the strangest punchline ever.

Dean found a good place to pull over, namely the abandoned parking lot of a closed down store, that had a nice dark spot not visible from the road. Then they got out, and showed Cas the trunk. 

The trunk had not gotten bigger over the years, but their ability to store stuff had become more tactical and methodical, so technically they carried as much stuff as they had ever carried. They had all the usual stuff - salt, ammo, iron, holy water, holy oil - but some new stuff as well, including the aforementioned grenade launcher, and an old fishing tackle box full of various but often useful herbs and small oddities. Cas had seen their trunk before, but he always looked slightly puzzled by it, like he couldn’t imagine them ever needing all these things. But he knew for a fact that they did. 

Cas went through the things, asking questions if he ever needed to, which wasn’t often. Finally, he asked, “Do you know where to get quantities of mistletoe and wormwood?”

Dean and Sam shared a looked that Dean liked to think of as deadpan, before Sam turned to Cas. “Those work on tricksters?”

“In a manner of speaking. They hate it. And if we can get enough of it, we should be able to contain a weak one, at least for a little while.”

“When you say quantities, how much do you mean?”

Cas scowled as he thought. “Quite a bit, if we want to encircle the whole mansion.”

Sam briefly considered that, and shook his head. “I’m not sure we could find that much of either mistletoe or wormwood in a big city, and this is the middle of nowhere. No way are we going to be able to do that. Is there a plan B?”

The look on Cas’s face said no, so Dean did his best to come up with something. There had to be something else, right? “You said people tricked tricksters into the Underworld? Why can’t we do that?”

Cas gave him the “are you unhinged” look that Dean had seen so many times, he was starting to take it personally. Why didn’t he ever look at Sam like that? Sam had crazy ideas too. Sometimes. “Because it would be extremely difficult, and takes some spell craft.”

“We can cast a spell, Cas,” Sam said. That felt like an understatement.

Cas’s lips thinned to a grim line. When that happened, bad shit was coming. “This is not a normal spell. It will require some blood and lots of power. We’ll need a witch.”

As tall orders went, that was one of the tallest. “Well, odds are there’s one in this town, but why would they do anything for us?” Sam asked.

“Uh ...  _ bleep _ ,” Dean said, rubbing his eyes. 

“What?” Sam asked.

“We know someone witch adjacent,” Dean replied, finally daring to look at Sam.

He knew Sam understood what he was saying when his expression fell. “Oh  _ bleep _ ”

Cas looked between them, curious. “You don’t mean Crowley, do you?”

Dean nodded. It was Cas’s turn to look away, muttering, “ _ Bleep _ .”

Yeah, that was pretty much all you could say about that. 

Dean texted Crowley again, this time sending,  _ You said you wanted to help us beat up the audience? This may be your chance. _ He’d barely shoved his phone back in his pocket when Crowley emerged from the shadows. “Where are they?” he asked. He was wearing the same suit as before. The audience greeted him with raucous applause. 

Dean sighed, knowing how well this would go over. He powered through anyway. “To get to them, we need to get to the trickster.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him, before glancing at Sam, and Cas, who seemed unusually tense. “That goes without saying, doesn’t it? Oh - you’re going to ask for my help, aren’t you?”

“Please don’t be a  _ bleep _ about this,” Dean said, even though he knew Crowley would be a dick about this. 

Crowley grinned. He was looking forward to this. “How else would I be?” The audience roared. Yep, they loved Crowley. And he probably wouldn’t admit it, but the bastard loved it.

Sam got right to the point. “While the trickster’s weak, we wanted to try and exile it back to the Underworld. And we need someone with magical abilities -“

Crowley burst out laughing. It was partially genuine. “Brilliant. You skipped shooting yourself in your faces? Because it is the better option.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Crowley -“

“I’m serious. I told you, god level. These things don’t  _ bleep _ around. Goddamn it, that is annoying.”

“Are you saying you can’t do it?” Dean shot back. He knew Crowley’s ego wouldn’t let that stand.

Crowley knew what he was doing, and narrowed his eyes at him. “I could do it, but what makes you think the trickster will fall for it again? We aren’t talking about a demon trap here. It’s a trap in the purest sense of the word. You have to set it, and wait for the trickster to fall into it. It fell once. It won’t fall again.”

“Sure it can,” Dean insisted. “New bait. Besides, it’s weak and rusty. I’m gonna guess it’s not at its best right now.”

“Considering you’re not dead, that’s a very easy bet.But you’ve forgotten an important thing.”

“What?”

“Why the bloody hell would I want to help you? This isn’t my fight.”

“Not yet,” Cas said. “But imagine what happens when a trickster god starts taking over. Hell’s souls will start drying up as he eats them himself. By that time, he’ll be immensely powerful. What then?”

Crowley scoffed, but Dean could tell that bothered him a little bit. Not much, but they wouldn’t need much if they got Crowley to believe it was in his best interest to get rid of this thing now. “That’s years away, if it happens at all.”

“Years?” Cas repeated. “Did you forget what happened to Atlantis?”

Crowley frowned, and Sam looked like he’d just been goosed by a frisky librarian. The audience found it amusing. “Atlantis? Wait - that was real?”

Cas nodded. “It was. Until a trickster god took over.”

Crowley gave Cas a scrutinizing glare. “And a whole bunch of angels sunk the bloody thing. How many people did you kill exactly?”

Cas at least had the decency to look a bit ashamed. “It was not our intention to sink the entire island. The trickster was more powerful than we anticipated.”

“And you destroyed the most advanced civilization on the planet at the time. Bravo, angels. No wonder you were put on celestial time out.”

Sam still looked surprised by this development, but Dean could see Cas bristling, and when he got defensive, things could escalate quickly. So he moved a bit closer to Crowley, putting himself between him and Cas, and tried to get things back on track. “Let’s get back to now, okay? No one wants a repeat of Atlantis, apparently. So help us put this thing back in the Underworld before it reaches full power, and you have to deal with it by yourself, huh?”

Crowley’s look was flinty. He knew they were trying to manipulate him. The thing about Crowley was, sometimes he was okay with that. Dean had never been sure of the why of it, until he became a demon for a bit. Then two things became very clear. Crowley may have been the King of Hell, but more often than not, he was bored and lonely. Pretty much the only reason he and Sam were still alive was because sometimes they provided some amusement for him, and that was it. Dean was kind of glad he learned that while a demon, because as a human, he would have been fucking pissed off. Time and distance had allowed Dean to realize that was super fucking sad, and he almost felt bad for Crowley, which he hated, because, duh, King of Hell. So his sympathy was muted. But there was some irony at work here. All Crowley wanted to do, when they met him, was take over Hell. He achieved that goal, and discovered it didn’t make him any happier than being King of the Crossroads, or at least not in the long term. Of course, he couldn’t pity him ... well, he did as a demon. But as a human that was a non-starter. Not just because Crowley would get all pissy about it, although he would. Mainly it was that he didn’t deserve it. That Hell thing was a deal breaker, if the whole making Cas go dark side and nearly die for good, and the Mark of Cain thing weren’t reasons all by themselves. 

For several uncomfortable seconds, Dean was afraid he was going to tell them to get fucked - or, technically, to get  _ bleep _ ed - but they lucked out, as Crowley must have been very bored. “Which god are we dealing with here?” Dean, Sam, and Cas all exchanged a look, a tacit ‘ _ you tell him’ _ , but Crowley figured it out by himself. “Holy hell, you still don’t know, do you?”

Sam actually looked a bit embarrassed. “There are a lot of trickster gods.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and shook his head. “If I do this, you three owe me. Big time.”

Dean cleared his throat, and when Crowley finally deigned to look at him, he simply said, “Ensenada.”

He and Crowley got up to some shit while Dean was a demon. Most of it was pretty pedestrian, considering he was possessed by the Mark of Cain and Crowley was the King of Hell. They could have burned down the world if they really wanted to ... and the Mark of Cain kind of wanted to. But Crowley enjoyed having a buddy to carouse with, so most of their time was spent doing that, much to the Mark’s dismay. Oh sure, sometimes Crowley had a grudge to work out between the orgies and the arson, but the Mark didn’t get a chance to kill as much as it wanted. And there was this one time that Crowley asked him to get something from the fairies, a dangerous tome of black magic, without exactly spelling out how complicated this mission was. The Mark survived - of course it did - but some bad shit could have happened to it, far worse than death, and Crowley had neglected to mention it. That had been a deliberate omission on his part, and that resentment festered until the Mark finally decided it was done with Crowley. But the Mark felt owed by Crowley, and Dean remembered that feeling.

Crowley clicked his tongue. “If you hadn’t been a big drama queen, we could have resolved that.”

Sam looked between them, and that little anxiety line formed between his brows. He didn’t know what this digression was, and he absolutely didn’t like it. “What are you two talking about?”

“Just a favor Crowley still owes me.”

“I don’t owe you jack  _ bleep _ ,” Crowley snapped. “You destroyed it.”

“Because liars don’t get rewards, Crowley. So help us out and I’ll call it even.”

If looks could kill, Dean would have been a smoldering corpse. And with a King of Hell, that possibility was always on the table. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Fine. You don’t owe me, and we don’t owe you. We’ll just do this thing, and figure out the accounting later.”

They stared at each other, the audience tittering in the background, and Dean honestly didn’t know which way it was going to go. He may have ruined things by trying to call in his chit, but goddamn it, Crowley did owe him at least one. “Fine. But I’m holding you to it.”

“Wouldn’t expect any less,” Dean admitted, to the laughs of the audience. Sam was still giving him the look. The one that said “ _ what did you do with Crowley that I in no way want to know the details of _ ”. You’d think so much couldn’t be squished into a single look, but Sam was unusual in that way. Or Dean was simply accustomed to his expressions by now. Again, he felt like they could do most of their communication by looks and hand signals by now. Cas was kind of giving him a similar look, except Cas wanted to know details, and honestly, Dean knew he was better off not knowing. 

Crowley looked at Cas, and asked, “Are we talking the Stellen incantation?”

“That would make the most sense, considering we’re not sure how strong it is.” 

Dean was glad Cas knew what the hell he was talking about.

Crowley turned his gaze on Dean and Sam again. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? This isn’t a small thing.”

“Yeah, we figured that part,” Dean said. 

Crowley still had a smug look on his face, and he didn’t like it one bit. “So I assume you know where the trickster is?”

“More or less?”

“How are you going to lure it out of wherever it is and into our trap? And where are we going to get the blood?”

Dean shrugged. He actually hadn’t gotten to figuring out that part. One disaster at a time. “You can have our blood.”

“Really? All five gallons of it?”

He quickly looked to Cas, assuming this was what passed for Crowley’s sense of humor, but Cas’s grim lipped look was back. It wasn’t a joke. They actually needed five gallons of blood for this spell. 

The audience, as always, roared with laughter. 


	7. Act 7: In Which There’s An Arrested Development

“Is animal blood acceptable?” Dean asked. Because that was a shit ton of animal blood, but you had to imagine a store with a meat counter or a butcher might have that much. 

Crowley was still smiling like this was fun for him. It probably was. “No. Higher life forms only.”

Sam frowned deeply, and shook his head. “We’re not killing someone. We’ll have to find another way.”

“There is no other way,” Crowley said, grinning smugly. Oh hell, he did everything smugly somehow - standing, sitting, looking bored. All with a thin glaze of smug. How did he do that? Maybe it was a power granted to you when you took over Hell. 

But that’s when Dean noticed Cas giving Crowley the stink eye. Finally, Cas said, “You could get the blood easily.”

Crowley shrugged. “Sure I could, but where’s the fun in that?”

Now Sam was glaring at Crowley, and for his part, Crowley was loving it. So was the audience, which cackled madly in the background. “Do you intend to help us, or just be an ass?”

Crowley shrugged. “Can’t I be both?” More laughter from the crowd. It was hard to say who was enjoying it more.

“I think we should concentrate on how we’re going to trap him,” Sam said. “The ritual is one thing, but getting him out of the house on our timetable is another. I mean, even he knows he’s weak. Why would come out?”

“To eat, obviously,” Dean said. “You know, if we make some Molotov cocktails -“

“Stop with the fire, Dean,” Sam said, giving him a sour frown. “I’m starting to worry about you.”

“What? All creepy crawlies hate fire. That’s like monster 101.”

Crowley was shaking his head, but not his smug, which seemed to get bigger. “Boys, how have you managed to stay alive all these years? I mean, besides dumb luck and having an angel in your bedside table. Even the smartest being on the planet will walk into a trap if you offer him exactly what he wants. How do you think I got to be King of Hell - by saving coupons?”

“No, by backstabbing and killing your rivals,” Dean said.

Crowley’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t deign to comment on that. Probably because it was true, and everyone here knew it. “If you know what a being really wants, you own them. All we need to bait the trap is give him what he wants. He’ll come, even if he thinks it a trap. He won’t be able to resist it. So what does he want?”

“Blood,” Sam said. 

“Bodies,” Dean added. None of this was helpful.

Crowley clicked his tongue. “You’re breaking my heart right now. You were much more clever as a demon, Dean.”

Rather than risk getting bleeped again, Dean gave him the finger, but the black box reappeared, covering his middle finger. “Oh, what the hell? C’mon, that’s f _ -beep _ up!”

Cas cocked his head, studying it. He reached out to touch it, but his finger went through the black box like a ghost. “That is bizarre.”

“It’s you, you massive piles of sentient flannel.”

He and Sam shared a curious look - no, neither knew what Crowley was talking about. “The box?” Dean asked.

Crowley rolled his eyes like an over-dramatic teenager told to mind his manners in front of his grandparents. “What he wants. You two. God knows why. Maybe he has a desperate need of doorstops.”

“What do you mean he wants us?” Sam asked.

“You were besieged by invisible crowds upon getting to town, yes? That takes some energy, especially considering how adaptive it is. And there’s no sign he attacked anyone else like this, yes? So why not? He’s softening you two up for the slaughter, although I can’t fathom why.”

They all considered it. Fuck, was Crowley right? Dean really didn’t want him to be right. “If that’s true, why the force field around the mansion? Why not let us stroll in?”

“Because this isn’t what he wants. He wants to control the meeting.”

A cop car drove by, not visible from where they were, but they had their siren still going, and it was loud enough that Dean couldn’t help but cringe. Crowley noticed it, and smirked. Goddamn it. 

After the cop was gone, the siren nothing but a rapidly fading scream, Sam said, “Oh. That’s why he called the cops.”

Dean glanced at him, following his logic. “Huh? He wanted us in a police sta - oh, s- _ beep _ . Captive audience.”

Crowley nodded. “Makes sense. You’re free of your weapons, and surrounded by innocent people who could be easily hurt to make you compliant, and wouldn’t believe a boogeyman was after you. A good plan. So give him what he wants.”

Sam said it before Dean could. “No way. Us in police stations never ends well.”

Dean nodded in agreement. “Too many people could get hurt. We’ll have to think of something else.”

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” Crowley snapped. “If you’re that worried, I can make a bunch of things happen that will have all the Barney Fifes thinking the Purge has come to their hick town. That way there will only be a couple left to babysit you two, and I can have a couple of my most trusted demons take them over, so they won’t care that feathers and I are doing a blood ritual in their back room.”

“Absolutely not,” Sam said. “You are not possessing police officers.”

“Um,” Cas said hesitantly. “That actually might protect them.”

Dean stared at Cas, who seemed unusually sheepish. This whole topic made him uncomfortable. “How?”

“Many gods see demons, and the demon inhabited, as “unclean”.”

Sam got it first. “So he wouldn’t drink their blood?”

“Not at all. I assume clean humans are more to his taste.” 

“Then why come after us?” Dean asked. “We’ve both been possessed by demons, me really recently. Aren’t we damaged goods?” The audience found that hilarious.

Cas both shook his head and shrugged, a confusing pair of gestures. “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t want your blood.”

“Then what does he want from us?” Sam wondered. 

“Oh, the jokes I could make,” Crowley said, grinning crookedly. Some of the audience applauded.

Dean felt he knew exactly what jokes Crowley would make, and gave him an evil look for it, even though that only added to his amusement. But honestly, this opened up some troubling possibilities. What was the best case scenario here - death? 

Cas must have read the look on his face,because he instantly tried to make it better. “Maybe he knows you're hunters, and simply wants to make an example of you.” Yes, that was the comforting wish. That’s how bad this was.

But the weirdness didn’t stop there. Cas kept looking at him, and Dean found it really difficult to look away. Like someone was holding his head in place. “Um, what’s happening?” Dean asked.

Cas was still staring at him, but he seemed slightly alarmed too. “I don’t know. I’m having difficulty looking away.”

“Me too.” The audience was split between laughters and  _ oohs _ .

He could see Sam out of the corner of his eye. “What’s happening?”

Dean physically put a hand on his own cheek, and turned his face away from Cas. It actually took physical effort on his part. “Cas and I can’t seem to stop looking at each other.”

“It’s very distressing,” Cas added. Which elicited more laughs.

Sam looked confused, but Crowley burst into laughter. “What?” Dean snapped.

Crowley was either really milking it, or he genuinely found this hilarious. He didn’t know which was worse. After the better part of a minute, he seemed to gather himself together. “You don’t get it? You two are the will they or won’t they of this sitcom.”

“Will they or won’t they what?” Cas asked. The audience howled with delight. 

“Um, just avoid eye contact for now,” Sam said, rubbing his face to unsuccessfully hide the smirk.

Dean glared at him, while Crowley added, “I really thought you two had already. What’s with not closing the deal, Castiel?”

Poor Cas still seemed deeply confused. “What deal? I don’t understand -“

“Just ... let it go,” Dean advised, careful not to look at him. He gave up on giving Crowley a death stare, because that just pushed him to the edge of laughter again. He was enjoying this way too much. “And maybe later, check out a website called TV Tropes. It might help.”

“You know this means he’s getting stronger, right?” Sam said. He’d managed to swallow back his amusement, unlike Crowley. “If he’s having a physical effect on you two ...”

“Yeah, we’re running out of time,” Dean admitted. This was the worst of all possible worlds - they had no idea what they were dealing with, beyond vague trickster spider-god, that wanted them for some reason, and they had to depend on Crowley to actually help save their asses, which was unwise at any time. And yet, they still had to make themselves bait, because if they didn’t now, this asshole trickster might be too powerful to resist a couple hours down the road. Son of a bitch. He hated these no win scenarios, and yet, he seemed to end up in one at least twice a year. Dean really felt he was too old for this shit, but the universe clearly didn’t care. “Okay, so, we gotta get ourselves arrested.”

“And how do we do that?” Sam asked. “Go back to the mansion?”

Dean wondered if it was a bad sign he had no trouble thinking of a thousand different ways they could get themselves arrested within the next ten minutes. Hell, if it was a speed round, he was sure he could cut it down to five. That probably wasn’t a thing to be proud of, but honestly, Sam should have known him better than that. “How do you feel about getting into a bar fight?”

Sam didn’t look enthused, but the audience laughed and clapped, so at least someone was enjoying it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to know what Demon Dean did for Crowley in Ensenada, you can find that in my story The Wild Hunt.


	8. Act 8 - In Which The Hook Is Set, But Seemingly Catches Too Much

Sam wondered why Dean took him to a sports bar, and not his usual preferred dive, until he opened the door, and was nearly smothered with noise. Ah. Smart. Who could hear the audience when you couldn’t even hear yourself think?

It was also a good place for a fight, as it seemed like a powder keg. Lots of drunk men trying to out macho each other, as they watched other men fight? Yeah, it was hard to believe there hadn’t been a fight already.

Dean went up to a handsome guy in an industrial metal shirt holding down one end of the bar, and from the confused look on his face, he and Dean had already interacted at some point. Why was he surprised? Dean always seemed to make friends - or at least acquaintances - wherever he went, and that had been pretty much true from his late teens onwards. He had somehow learned to weaponize his charm, which Sam knew for a fact Dad hadn’t taught him. It was just Dean learning how to use his natural charisma as an unusual weapon in his arsenal. Dean whispered to him, “Call the police on us,” which just added to the man’s confusion.

He and Dean faked an argument that started with pushing and shoving, and ended up in punches. They intended only to involve themselves, but, in typical fashion, something went wrong.

Now he and Dean had fought many times, probably way too much to be considered a healthy relationship, but they had also sparred together a lot. Hell, Dean taught him more about hand to hand fighting than Dad did, and it was only partially related to the fact that Sam was actually kind of a small kid, until his teen growth spurt. Dad couldn’t really train him that way when he was only around once in a blue moon. They knew each other’s moves, knew how to throw a punch so weak it couldn’t have killed a gnat, despite looking very impressive, that sort of thing. Sam hesitated to call themselves professionals in this, but ... no, fuck it. They’d been doing this long enough. Yes, they were professionals at the fake and not so fake fight. 

But this in person aggravation was too much for the crowd of drunks, which started spontaneously on their own. It got out of hand very quickly. It was a good thing the guy had already called the cops, because they were very much needed. As it was, he and Dean sat and watched the drunk men fighting - or, as was more often the case, trying to fight and failing, because they were too drunk to see straight - until the cops arrived, and then they went back to it. 

It was nearly a full blown riot by the time the cops showed up, and it was actually kind of a relief when they were handcuffed and thrown in the back of a squad car. Sam enjoyed the silence for a moment, until the sound of the audience came back in again. Damn it. He almost forgot about them for a second. 

The cop shop was a mess once they got there. They were apparently being besieged by strange incidents all across town, which seemed to be their confirmation that Crowley was at least living up to that part of the bargain, by keeping the cops too busy to do much thinking. While they watched, the number of cops became fewer and fewer, and before much time had passed, he and Dean were alone with two cops and a desk sergeant. When one of the cops came to collect him, his eyes briefly flashed black. One of Crowley’s plants. 

Of course, Sam never needed to see his eyes. Just by the way he handled him needlessly rough, and somehow took the cuffs off him with extra violence alone told him this was a demon who was enjoying this.

This was a small town police station, and looked exactly like you would expect one to look: like a boring industrial building. The unique feature of this one was it looked like it might be a repurposed place, like it used to be an office store or storage warehouse hastily remade into a people warehouse. They splashed white paint on the walls in an attempt to cover bare concrete walls, but you could still see the texture of it beneath the paint. It had all the charm of a rusted rabbit cage with a broken door.

The only benefit of the design was the drunk tank was in another part of the station, so while they could hear them in all their bellicose glory, they wouldn’t be sharing space with them, which was fantastic. Even though drunk could be an excuse for seeing something inhuman, it was simply easier to not have to deal with them anymore. 

The demon cop shoved him into the small cell that he was clearly sharing with Dean, and closed the door with an audible clang. “You don’t have to lock it,” Sam hissed at him. 

The demon was in a cop who looked like a tall, underfed string bean, whose Adam’s apple looked too large for his narrow throat. He grinned at him with coffee stained teeth, and eyes turned black. “Sure we do, princess. Sells the realism.” The audience laughed, and partially applauded. 

“F- _ beep _ you very much, assh- _ beep _ !” Dean shouted after him. He was sitting on the far side bunk, one foot up on the rock hard thing, and Sam didn’t know why until he reached into his boot and brought out something that looked like a hex bag. “Mistletoe and wormwood,” Dean said, tossing him the bag. “We didn’t have enough in the trunk to surround the mansion, but we had enough for that. For whatever good it’ll do us.”

Sam sat down on the opposite bunk - yeah, it was as hard as you’d think a metal slab would be - and looked inside the bag. It looked like it might make a decent if funny tasting and slightly poisonous cup of tea, but not much more than that. He looked towards the cell door, and Dean must have read his mind, because he said, ” It might make a line in front of most of the door, but not all of it.” The crowd tittered uncomfortably, as if not sure how to react. Sam was with them for once, because he wasn’t sure how to react either.

If it didn’t cover the entryway, it wasn’t much good, so he put the bag in his pocket, not sure what else to do with it. Maybe it would come to him. “Do I want to know how you knew that guy at the sports bar?” Sam asked.

Dean gave him a look that seemed to suggest he was thinking about not doing so, but then he relented. “He was the one who gave me the tip on the mansion. He’s a vampire, but claims he’s a good one.”

“Do you believe him?”

Dean shrugged. “Only because he has a lousy job at a shitty bar.”

“Fair enough.” And it was. They could keep an eye on him, but Sam imagined he’d get the fuck out of dodge at the first opportunity. Being recognized by hunters was no way to live peacefully. 

The only problem with this whole thing - correction: one of the most annoying things about this whole thing - was they had no idea how long they’d have to wait for the spider trickster to show. If he showed. There was always a possibility he wouldn’t. But Sam wasn’t worried that they’d be stuck here for good, because, while Crowley would definitely do that, Cas wouldn’t allow it. 

It took longer than it should have, but Sam finally realized Dean gave him the bag of protective herbs. He lifted it out of his pocket, willing to blame his slowness on the uptake to the fact that the crowd was driving him crazy, and the fact that it felt like he hadn’t slept in twenty hours, which may have been true. “Do you have one of these?”

“Nope, that’s all we had. Apparently mistletoe and wormwood isn’t something we have much use for.” The audience’s laughs were sporadic now. They weren’t finding them as funny as they had been. Curious. 

“Why give it to me?”

“I figured you might know what to do with it. I have no clue.”

Dean was a very good liar. Sam liked to think he was better than him, although he honestly didn’t know. It had occurred to him he wanted to think that, to absolve him for all his lying. But it didn’t, did it? They’d been lying and committing credit card fraud, grave desecration, and a dozen other things since they were pretty much old enough to hold a gun and knew how to use a knife. Hell, they didn’t even get “arrested” tonight under their real names - Sam was Sam Smith, and Dean was Brian Jones, because of course he was. If they couldn’t lie, they’d probably curl up and die, like a ghost whose bones were burning. “Did you really think you’d get away with that?”

Dean frowned at him. “I’m serious. I have no idea what to do with it.”

“Uh huh. Please don’t play martyr with me now, I can’t handle it.” Sam was aware he’d felt a pressure in his head since just before he got thrown in here, but now it was growing. He thought it was a sinus headache, but now he knew it wasn’t. “Hey Sammy, miss me?” A man asked, and Sam turned to see Lucifer grinning at him through the bars.

He jolted backwards until he hit the wall, but he knew it wasn’t real, right? Lucifer was in the cage; he wasn’t here.

“Of course I am,” Lucifer said. Now he was inside the cell, and he crouched by Sam’s cot. “Whenever you’re in a cage, I am too.”

Sam closed his eyes, and told himself this was a hallucination. He was really tired, and the audience had been fraying at his nerves. This was what happened when he felt like reality was sliding away from him.

Then he felt Lucifer’s hand on his leg. 

  
Lucifer was an archangel who fell, which apparently made him king demon somehow, but all that meant was he shouldn’t feel any different than anyone else. But he did. Probably to live up to his own hype, Lucifer’s hands were so cold they were hot, a contradiction that was odd but still true. It was like he was trying to hurt people with even the most minor of contact, which was also probably true. But no matter how often your nerves burned away, he brought them back, to start the practice all over again. His cruelty was casual, constant, and pointless. Unless giving him his jollies could be seen as a point. 

When Sam opened his eyes, he was no longer sharing a cell in a podunk police station with Dean. He was in the cage with Lucifer. It smelled like rust and blood and burned flesh and hair; it was a smell you could taste, that lodged in the back of your throat and refused to go. It was pitch black, but the shadows still moved, in random and frightening ways that guaranteed you wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. 

Lucifer’s eyes were glowing red like hot coals, and he wasn’t so much as smiling as giving him a gloating leer. Another thing people might not know about Lucifer? He really loved to gloat. “What makes you think you ever left the cage, Sammy?”

Sam punched himself in the arm, hard enough that the pain seemed to echo through his body, but the landscape didn’t change. Lucifer was now chuckling at him, and took his hand off his leg. The muscles had burned down to bone, but was now healing itself, and he could feel every agonizing second of it. It was like he had fire ants beneath his skin, polluting his bloodstream. 

“If it will make you feel better, I could beat the shit out of you to confirm you’re still here. Hell, I could rip a limb off. Would you prefer that? I’ve never actually had the chance to beat someone to death with their own arm, but I’d love to try.”

No, no, no. This wasn’t true. Sam didn’t know what this was - an extremely realistic hallucination perhaps - but it wasn’t real. It wasn’t. 

But what if it was? 


	9. Act 9 - In Which The Grisly Nature of the Plan Is Revealed

Dean wasn’t sure which he had noticed first - Sam’s weird reaction to nothing, or that fact that the noisy jail suddenly became eerily quiet. They seemed to happen simultaneously. 

“Sam?” Dean asked, his voice pitched at a whisper. The silence was weird, and he felt like he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. But why? It didn’t make sense. For the briefest of seconds, he even missed the audience. 

  
Sam didn’t respond to him. He had shoved himself back against the wall, as if something had startled him, but there was nothing here. “Sammy?” Dean asked again, giving him a shake. No response. He was staring in what seemed to be terror at something, but following his gaze, all Dean saw was bars. “There’s nothing here.” He waved a hand in front of his face. No response. Whatever he was seeing, it was in his head, and Dean wasn’t going to reach him. 

The anger flooded him, but it was short lived, because he suddenly felt ... something.

He couldn’t put a name to it at first. It was like someone put a lead blanket on his back; he could feel heaviness from his shoulders down. It was followed by a sense of dread so utter and terrible, it made him weak in the knees. He had to sit back down on his bed before he collapsed. 

And now there was a noise. At first, Dean thought it was a mechanical click and rasp, like a car with a dying flywheel that just wasn’t catching, but he realized he was trying to logically categorize this sound so it would be less terrifying. There was no way in fucking hell it was a car.

It was an insect. A gigantic motherfucking insect.

The sound became louder, and was still the only thing audible. Even the rattling beast of the station’s air conditioner was silenced. Dean wondered if they were the only humans currently alive in this place. Or maybe this was in his head. Maybe it wanted him to think this was real.

  
Except, no. Dean was far too aware of his body, aware of the fear response dumping adrenaline into his system, for this to be in his head. In fact, he wished it was. He found the idea of that comforting at the moment. This thing dragged an atmosphere of suffocating fear with it, something that made you want to curl up and die before you even saw it. How evil was this thing?

“Evil is relative, isn't it?” a voice said. A voice that was at once deep and metallic, droning and hissing. A dozen different sounds dwelled behind the words somehow, and Dean could honestly see how this could be maddening. He didn’t want to look at him. He was afraid of what he’d see, because he knew by now he would regret it. But his head turned anyway.

The lights in this part of the prison - or all of it? - were flickering, making the scene even more nightmarish. What he saw at first was a seven foot tall man with very broad shoulders, wearing a black coat that swirled around him like black wings. Except it wasn’t a coat, and it wasn’t a man. His face looked like a torn off human face held on by glue and elastic, and with a calmness born of utter terror, Dean realized that’s exactly what it was. He was wearing a human face as a mask. You could see where it was sliding off, revealing the black carapace underneath. And his eyes were black and bulging and too big for the eye holes, so they were torn, revealing the bloody skin beneath. It wore a hat to cover up the fact that it had no hair, and possibly not even a proper head shape. While it was wearing a torn coat like garment, you could see at the wrist where it had several black, cable like arms forming a single hand. Or, more correctly, the thing it put in a glove made out of human flesh. 

In his own mind, Dean was screaming. But he’d been so good at suppressing things for so long, he kept from doing it in real life. Just barely. “You humans are so easy to scare,” the thing clicked. It was somehow speaking and clicking at once. He didn’t understand it at all. Were those pincers hidden behind the non-moving human lips? 

When Dean was sure he could speak without screaming or vomiting, he asked, “Then why bother?” It came out a croak, but considering how it sounded, it was almost like they were a related species. 

“Why do you bother to still hunt monsters? Besides the fact that you don’t know how to act and live like a normal human, if you ever really did? Because it’s fun.”

It had two hands grabbing the bars of their cell, but Dean didn’t think breaking the lock would be much of a problem for it. Two more arms appeared at his side, wiry black, armored with a carapace that gleamed like the finest chrome. “You see what happens when I try and host myself in a human. These are the remains of the guy I started wearing a couple of hours ago. You creatures are so weak! I guess I’m too much god for you.”

Dean thought he was hearing a humming noise in his head, but he saw a shadow on the wall that shouldn’t have been there, and realized this god bug was being followed by a swarm of flies. They had spread out behind him, watching and waiting, like flies really didn’t do. “Then why bother with us at all?”

“Why? I realize you’re petrified beyond your ability to cope, but I find it very hard to get around without being noticed. Glamouring only gets you so far.”

“Especially when you have an insect cheering section.”

It made an amused humming noise. Or at least he thought it might have been amused. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Not putting taxidermied squirrels in a tug of war funny, but I have my moments.”

“They weren’t taxidermied. They were alive when I posed them that way. And froze them.”

Dean didn’t think he had freezing powers, although he did feel eerily cold. He posed live animals, and ... what? Sucked out their life force? Holy shit, why did that seem even worse than doing it to people? Because, in theory, people had a chance? Animals never did. “Why? What the fuck was the point of that?” Oh good, he could curse again. Not that it mattered. 

“I wanted to give you something you’d never seen before, to encourage you to stick around. You never did let me finish my little villain speech, Dean, and I think that’s very rude of you.”

Before he could say anything, Dean stopped breathing. It was like his lungs forgot how to work. He tried to gasp, but he couldn’t even do that. His blood and heartbeat thundered in his head, and he started seeing black spots pulse in front of his eyes before he could suddenly breathe again, and he gasped in air like he had been drowning. 

“It’s a good thing I need you alive for the first bit,” the thing said. “Or you would have died behind bars, just like your daddy always feared you would.”

Okay, this wasn’t a god as in a mislabeled monster, this was a god as in fuck you. One too big for them to fight. In all honesty, they shouldn’t even be in the same room as him. Getting his breath back, he noticed Sam was still zoned out, and, while whatever was going on in his head was undoubtedly horrible, it was probably a kindness compared to being in an enclosed space with this wide awake nightmare. “What did you do to Sam?”

The thing’s hands - or hand coverings - flexed on the bars, like he was about to rip the cell door off. Maybe he was. “Oh, you both have such fascinating scars on your brain. You’ve built up so many callouses yours aren’t much fun, but his were still pretty well unhealed. He doesn’t have your talent for denial. I couldn’t help but dig my fingers in and pry them open. Although, to be frank? Kind of pedestrian for you lot. I was hoping for something more ... exotic.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. If we’d known you were coming, we’d have gift wrapped our trauma.”

“Has it ever helped, Dean? The jokes?”

“Keeps me from screaming.”

“Well, look at that. An almost honest answer. Mortality does have a way of making your species honest.”

“I thought you wanted us alive.” Could he move at all? Dean was trying, but that weird weakness was still with him. Standing seemed to be out of the question, so how could he fight? If it came near, maybe he could try. But somehow he doubted a headbutt would hurt it much. It now seemed wonderfully naive that mistletoe and wormwood would have kept this monstrosity at bay. Dean would have felt more comfortable with a flamethrower, or his grenade launcher. And a moat filled with extremely hungry alligators who also somehow had ebola. 

The thing made a ticking noise, and its human face slid a little farther down its face. It was now at a slight right angle, a piece of the cheek skin flapping loose. All he could see beneath it was more of that shiny black carapace, and some kind of curved thing that could have been a mandible. “To start with. As I said, before you rudely interrupted me, I need a vessel for which to walk around this polluted world, without a lot of notice. See, I’m not a lesser being like an angel or a demon. I can’t possess a vessel like they can. I am a higher being, therefore my vessels are different. I have to infect them.”

Dean considered the possibly that he’d heard the bug man wrong. He didn’t think he had. “Infect? Like a virus?”

“Don’t insult me. No, I have to inject some of my genetic coding into the vessel, and my cells change yours. Initially they overrun your cells, and morph them to something more agreeable to me. But as you can see from the remains of this poor son of a bitch dripping off of me, most people can’t handle the transformation. I grow, but they can’t retain their shape, and a bit of ripping and exploding happens. Not ideal. Let me tell you, nothing clears a restaurant out faster. So imagine how pleased I was when a couple of potential archangel vessels came to town.”

Oh _no_. “You are not -“

“I do wish you’d stop interrupting me. Did you know, thanks to my godhood and all, I can transubstantiate? In case that’s too big a word for you, it means I can be in two places at once, or, in this case, two bodies at once. Hell, I was once in a half dozen at once, and let me tell you, that was a real party.”

This was worse than he could have possibly imagined. He honestly thought this asshole wanted to kill them, but this was so much fucking worse. “You are not Alien-ing us. We ain’t going to be hosts for your fucking chestbursters.”

With the slightest of movements, the bug man ripped the door off the cell, and he tossed it aside like it was nothing more than plywood. “I must admit, I find your nonsense intriguing. Does that garbage mean anything to anyone? Also, it’s damned cute you think you have a say in any of this. I mean, Dean, stop hitting yourself.”

“What?” That was barely out of his mouth before he punched himself in the face. It was hard enough to make him see stars. Dean didn’t even remember making a fist, not to mention throwing a punch at his own face. But he had. He could taste blood in his mouth. Did he loosen one of his own teeth? 

“You’re my puppet already, little man. I’m too strong, and you’ll never be strong enough.” It now stood in the center of the cell, facing him, and it reached up and peeled the human face off. Underneath, there was mostly featureless black chrome, except at the bottom, where mandibles flared, and he could see a half dozen large pincers, looking as thick as wrench handles, but as sharp as knives. Dean had no idea how a human sounding voice could have come out of a mouth like that. And its eyes were big, bulbous black fly eyes, each as large as an orange. Dean imagined they might be his weak point, if he got a chance to go for them, but he couldn’t move. He was trying to move his thumb, just flex the knuckle, and it wasn’t happening. He had absolutely no control of his body. Somehow, this thing had cut all his strings, just by showing up.

If this was this thing at its weakest, there was no fucking way the world would survive it at its strongest. 


	10. Act 10 - In Which The Trap Is Sprung

It felt like a million years had passed. The thing did a grotesque kind of striptease, peeling off the human skin covering its insectoid form, and it was slightly worse than Dean had allowed himself to imagine.

It didn’t look like a spider. Yes, it had many limbs, and a gaping maw that seemed to take over more than half of its face, but it seemed more beetle like. Cockroach? Not a terrestrial insect he’d ever seen, but close to a couple. And he focused on this to ignore the gibbering inside his own skull. He was so terrified he thought he could feel his sanity cracking like ice, sifting through his fingers like slivers. He didn’t know if it was part of the thing the god dragged with him, or it was his own fear making this happen. The worst part, as always, was down to the fact that he couldn’t move. If he could fight and fail, that was one thing. But to never be able to do anything except wait for it to kill you? It was the fucking worst. 

After shedding skin, most of it still wet with blood, it took a step towards him, but paused, and looked towards the gaping hole where the cell door used to be. “How dare you come into my presence, parasite.”

For a moment, Dean wondered if gods could go crazy. And then Crowley’s voice, as smooth as silk, said, “Only my friends call me parasite.” Crowley now came into his vision, outside the cell. His eyes widened slightly and briefly when he saw what they were dealing with. “Oh dear. You’re the god with the good personality, I take it?”

Crowley was flung against the wall by an invisible force, and the god finally rotated its head all the way towards him. Rotated it like a fucking owl, like it didn’t have a neck, only a socket. God, the more Dean thought about this thing, the more he wanted to go insane. This thing wasn’t Lovecraftian, was it? That would explain a lot. “You’re not a typical parasite, are you? You should be dead.”

“It’s shocking how much I hear that,” Crowley said, sliding off the wall. He straightened his tie, even though he didn’t need to. 

“What are you?” the bug god demanded.

Crowley looked at it with a sort of detached contempt, a look only he seemed able to pull off. “If you must know, I’m the King of Hell. I thought we could make a deal.”

“I don’t deal with lessers.”

“Of course you do. You’re a god. Everything else is your lesser, yes?”

The bug was quiet for a long moment, and Dean noticed it had long hairs spring from the joints of its limbs, and they were moving slightly. Was that what it did when it had no idea how to react? Because Dean was pretty sure Crowley had knocked it off balance for a second. Dean never wanted to give Crowley a compliment, and he never would, but he did seem to know how to unsettle people - and things - with a single sentence. That was a weird but handy talent. “Yes. But ... leave before I kill you.”

“And miss the show? I’d never forgive myself.”

“There’s no show here.”

“Of course there is. I believe chestbursters were referenced? I want to see your ovapositor, just for reference. I’m sure that would be an excellent torture in Hell, and new ones rarely come along.” Dean couldn’t tell if Crowley was serious or not, but he bet the bug couldn’t either, so at least they were in the same boat.

A couple of the bug’s mandible’s moved, but they made nothing but a low, nightmarish scritching sound. “What happened to Lucifer? I thought he was King of Hell.”

“I caged him.” Oh, did he? That would be news to Sam.

The bug made an odd, abbreviated buzz, and Dean assumed, in retrospect, it was a kind of a laugh. “You couldn’t cage a cat, you butterfly. Leave my sight or I will remove you.”

Crowley shook his head, and slipped his hand in his pocket. “It’s a shame. If we reached a deal, I would have let you have these two, but now I can’t allow it.”

The bug turned towards Crowley, something flaring on its back, growing wider. Were those wings? Or more limbs? Dean wasn’t sure. Could have been a combination of the two. “Allow it? I take, you officious little tick.”

“And I’m no one’s butterfly, Gregor Samsa.” Crowley had something in his hand, it looked like a dark glass globe, and he threw it to the floor while shouting a word in old Latin. The globe shattered, sending inky black liquid splattering on the floor - it smelled, nauseatingly, like bile. The floor seemed to absorb it, and a hole opened up, expanding in front of the bug god. The bug saw it, and quickly tried to back away, but the hole opened too fast, and it dropped down into a whirling, squirming darkness. There was a noise coming from the hole too, but it was weird - like a whole bunch of people screaming into an electric fan, with an occasional burst of thunder behind them. 

Crowley leaned over the hole and gave a sarcastic wave as the hole suddenly irised shut, a closing eye.

Dean surged forward, suddenly able to move again, as Sam jolted, and looked around him, as if he wasn’t sure where he was. Probably true. “You motherfucker,” Dean said to Crowley. He had jumped to his feet, and his body was almost vibrating with all the adrenaline that had poured into his system. Dean’s heart was thundering in his chest, like he’d just run a marathon. A physical fight would make him feel a whole lot better. “You were gonna sell us out?”

Crowley tried to give him an innocent look, but it never set well on his face. “I had to have some reason for being here, or it would have seemed suspicious.”

“Wait, it’s over?” Sam asked, standing up. He seemed unsteady, which made Dean wonder what the bug had been showing him. Nothing good. “I missed it?”

“Yeah. Trust me, you’re better off not knowing what it was. It was like a giant cockroach. Kind of like Mimic, but taller and less appealing.”

It seemed to take Sam a minute to realize Mimic was a movie reference, and then it took a few more seconds for him to clock it. Yeah, he didn’t look great. Did Dean want to know what trauma the bug was forcing Sam to relive inside his own head? It could have only been the cage, right? His time playing Caged Heat with Satan. It was probably a shock he wasn’t constantly in a catatonic state. 

Sam’s eyes widened as he looked at the floor. “Is that a face?” He was looking at what the bug had been wearing and cast aside. It was partially flipped, so you could see an eye hole, but the lips were inside out. That was a remarkably disgusting detail. 

“Are you all right?” Cas asked, joining the party. His tie was partially askew, and spattered with dark drops that Dean assumed was blood. He had no idea what the ritual was exactly, but it sounded as gross and messy as hell. It would also figure that Crowley would walk away without a stain on him. 

Dean nodded. “As much as we can be. Is anyone alive out there?”

Cas nodded. “The possessed officers are unconscious, but alive. The same goes for the other prisoners. It really wasn’t here long enough to kill.”

“It was probably saving the snacks for after it infected you,” Crowley said. Comforting thought.

“Infected us?” Sam asked, wide eyed.

Yeah, okay, he was going to have to think of something to tell him. Somehow, telling Sam the ugly truth seemed unfair. He shared a commiserating look with Cas, and realized he could actually look away from him now. So the television rules were over. 

Hooray. No more laugh track. He was never going to watch a sitcom again.

**

After several stiff drinks to settle their nerves, and forget the horrors they’d been through, both he and Sam caught up on sleep. They were exhausted, and the crash after an adrenaline overload was only part of it. There were times when it felt like they’d been hunted for a hundred years. Never mind that they weren’t that old - Dean would swear he was a hundred, some days. 

As for Crowley, he left after saying, “We’re even.” Dean felt that could be argued, but in all honesty, after saving him from getting Alien-ed? He would have been okay if Crowley said he owed him. That was one nightmare he had no wish to experience. 

Cas stuck around, to make sure the demons released the cops - they did - and just to make sure they were okay, which was kind of him. Did they still have their weird connection? Dean honestly wasn’t sure, since they’d both technically died  and come back since Cas rescued him from Hell, but Dean thought maybe. If so, he must have known had shaken up he was by this. He’d probably been mentally screaming the whole damn time. 

Before gladly leaving town, they dropped by the loud sports bar from the night before, only to find that Kiran had fled town without leaving a forwarding address, which made sense. He said he was trying to avoid hunters, and they had completely blown his cover. If he turned out to be a killer, they’d probably find him again.

Sam did a bit of research on the Delacourt mansion, on the off chance it was haunted, but it quickly revealed itself to be one of those near impossible cases. Neither the matriarch or the patriarch were buried anywhere near here - the matriarch was buried at her family’s crypt in Newfoundland (!), and the patriarch had been cremated, and his ashes scattered in the Atlantic. If there was a piece of them in the house that allowed them to haunt it, Sam had no idea what it could possibly be. It would have been a needle in a haystack search. Since his research had turned up no violent incidents in or around the house, they decided to leave it. If any story about the mansion popped up again, they’d come back, but right now, they were more than happy to get this fucking town in their rearview. 

Sam had been weirdly quiet since the cell, and Dean had mentally gone back and forth on whether he should make Sam talk about it or not. On the one hand, it was his choice, and if he didn’t want to talk about it, fine. But on the other, who else was Sam going to talk to about this? And bug god had implied the trauma hadn’t exactly healed. 

When they were driving back, Dean gave Sam all the space he needed to say something, but he didn’t. Damn it. Dean was gonna have to do this, wasn’t he? “You okay?” Dean began lamely.

Sam was looking at his phone, which he’d been doing since they left the motel. He was probably already looking for another case, which Dean recognized as a common symptom of denial. Sam probably figured, if he kept busy, he wouldn’t have to think about shit. That almost never worked, but that was the well they both kept going back to, as if monster hunting could ever really save them. A while ago, Dean had come to the conclusion they were damned no matter what, and had probably been damned since they were kids. This was all they were good for, and all they could do. They were living ghosts that haunted the world, until someone somewhere finally put them out of their misery.

Not that he was going to tell him  _ that _ . 

Sam shrugged. “Fine. I never even saw the thing.”

“No, you were just back with Lucifer.”

Sam stiffened, like Dean had hit him with a taser. “It was just an illusion. Something it put in my head.”

“Based on real memories. You know I’m here if you ever want to talk.”

Sam lowered his phone, and sighed. Dean kept him in the corner of his eye, but Sam was looking straight ahead, nowhere near him. “To talk about it would be like reliving it again, and I’d just ... rather not. I’m okay, I promise you. It’s just ... I prefer pretending that never happened. I know that isn’t healthy, but I also know this is the only way I can live my life.”

Dean knew he had no room to comment, as that was pretty much how he lived his life after returning from Hell. The bug god was right about one thing - Dean had a hell of a lot more practice compartmentalizing things than Sam did. Dean had been doing it since he was a kid. Once Mom died, he had to figure out his own ways to go on and get through the day. Dad was such a mess in the early days, he was no help at all. 

Dean flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, glad to have something solid to hold onto. That was always his first rule. Find an anchor, and use that. Pull yourself up and go until you could see daylight. Again, not healthy, but neither of them knew how else to live anymore. 

In retrospect, maybe living in a sitcom wouldn’t be so bad. Assuming there was no laugh track. 

 


End file.
